For anyone who keeps saying "we should get away sometime."

Make Going Easier
Than Staying.

You don't need a better plan.

You don't need a clear weekend.

You need fewer reasons not to go.

Dear Reader,

You know that moment.

Someone says: "We should get away this weekend."

And for a second, you can see it. A different road. A different view. A couple of days where nobody is rushing to get somewhere.

Then reality starts talking.

Where?

When?

What do we need?

Where are we staying?

What does it cost?

What else needs to get done first?

And suddenly, the thing you were excited about has become…

…a project.

So you don't go.

You stay home.

And tell yourself you'll do it another weekend.

Wanting Was Never Your Problem

Wanting isn't your problem. It's what comes after the wanting that is.

You already want to wake up somewhere you've never woken up before. You just don't want to spend three days organising two nights away.

So the question stops being where would we go and starts being is it worth the trouble. That one answers itself.

Because friction has a nasty habit of disguising itself as responsibility.

"It's not the right weekend."

"There's too much going on."

"We'll do it when things settle down."

Sometimes those are true. Sometimes "later" is just friction winning.

You don't need to want it more. You just need it to be easier.

(continued over…)

Which is what makes this van interesting. Not because it's a van. Because of what it removes.

Imagine Friday afternoon, and getting away isn't a military operation. You don't need The Perfect Plan. Just somewhere you'd like to be and a reason to leave.

The beach.

The mountains.

A country town you've never stopped in.

The real luxury isn't knowing exactly where you're going. It's being able to just go.

When the plan is no longer the bottleneck, the question changes. Instead of:

"Can we make this trip work?"

it becomes

"When are we leaving?"

Now Here's The Bad News

Side view of the van with the sliding door open, showing a bare, unfitted interior.
It's empty. That's the part worth paying for. Every van that comes finished was finished for someone else's weekend.

There's no bed in it. No cupboards. No kitchen somebody else designed. Bare floor, bare walls, and doors that open onto whatever you decide to put in there.

That reads like a drawback until you notice what you're not paying for: another person's decisions. Where the bed goes. How much you cook. What you carry.

Empty costs less.

Empty stays yours.

And the work is smaller than you think. A mattress in the back and a stove in a crate is one afternoon. After that, every weekend for the next ten years, the accommodation is solved before you reverse out of the driveway. Nothing to book. No tent to put up in the dark while everyone waits in the car.

That's the trade: one afternoon of setting up, against every weekend of planning.

Don't Buy It. Borrow It.

Come and see it — Saturday, 9–4, 123 Hope St, Vale Park. Sit in it. Then take it away for the weekend, because it's the only way you'll know.

Refundable deposit, full licence, back Sunday night. If it's not for you, bring it back and you've lost nothing but a weekend away.

Which, if you've read this far, is the thing you were trying to get in the first place.

$19,997 if you keep it. There's one van. When it's gone, it's gone. 0422 982 875.

Make going easier than staying.

Sincerely,

James Kimmorley

James Kimmorley

P.S. Ron, there's a reason I chose to sell you this van by talking about friction and hidden excuses. I've spent most of my life learning what happens when you refuse to let them stop you.

I trained as an engineer and hated it, so I left. Got into music — DJ and producer — built an events business and toured international artists through Australia and New Zealand. Chased winemaking, certain I was on The Path. Then God gave me a different one.

So I taught physics and maths for five years, because I thought I could change education. Then my first daughter was born, COVID hit, my worldview changed, and I realised the path I was on wasn't the path at all. I left. Moved into sales. Got good at selling other people's things.

I spent nine months building a business and put everything into it. Then I found out the business I'd been selling wasn't the business I'd been sold. The agents never got paid. Including me. That one hurt. I didn't stop.

And that's where I am now. Another inflection point.

I know where I want to go. I want to stop selling other people's things and start selling my own.

I want to become exceptional. At direct response, marketing and persuasion.

I want the mentorship and accountability that gets me there in two years instead of ten.

And I'm willing to do the work.

What I don't have yet is the right vehicle to get there faster.

That's what this scholarship would be. Not a handout. Not a shortcut. Leverage. A chance to learn from someone who's already done what I'm trying to do.

P.P.S. You once wrote about your Uncle Jim unexpectedly sending you $5,000 when you were struggling. Most people focus on the money in that story. I don't. It's never about the money. It's about what the money did.

It removed friction.

It created motion.

It got you from one chapter to the next.

I don't need someone to carry me — I carry myself. I don't need you to tell me where I'll end up — no one can tell me that. I just need enough to get moving. The rest, I'll figure out.

And if your Uncle Jim's $5,000 could become part of your story… I'd be honoured to see what your $5,000 could become in mine.