When I think of dream jobs, the very last thing I would put on that list would be a geographically isolated, repetitive job cleaning up after tourists and with a less than compassionate boss.
M seems to love it. He manages an isolated campsite, 25 minutes from the nearest pub. His home? A converted fire truck. Yes, seriously, a converted fire truck. And a very nice job he has done of it too. The flashing lights still work (but cannot be used on public roads), but unfortunately the siren was disconnected.
He has diverse and strong opinions about a wide range of (mainly political) topics and so provides fabulous entertainment of a summer's evening, even if he does tend strongly to the pessimistic end of the spectrum. His habit of nattering at length and taking any topic on a tangent as wide as the Pacific is less endearing when you just went over to say thank you and goodbye. Ten minutes later, you find yourself in the midst of a monologue about tax and stupid credit limits.
I wonder where he will end up next in his fire truck?
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