*”That’s my sister!”* the man exclaimed as his dear sister set up a barbecue right on top of my prize roses. My response towered two metres high…
Picture this: we inherited a cottage from my mother-in-law. *”Cottage”* was a generous term—it was little more than a rickety shack, a fence held together by three planks, and a garden waist-deep in weeds. My husband, like most men, took one look and said, *”Blimey, let’s just sell the ruddy thing.”*
But I—well, I’ve always been stubborn. I clung to that scrap of land like a terrier with a bone. I could already see it transformed. For a whole year, the cottage was my obsession. I poured nearly all our savings into it—and, of course, my sweat.
I painted the place myself, hired workmen to fix the roof, but my pride? The garden. Not just a few flowerbeds, mind you, but a proper *English Eden*—roses, peonies, hydrangeas. I tended each bloom like it was my own child.
At first, my husband laughed, but when he saw the results, even he had to admit it was something. *”Bloody hell, Lottie, you’ve outdone yourself,”* he’d say, staring at the riot of colour. And honestly? I was happy. It was my sanctuary.
But peace never lasts.
Enter my sister-in-law, *Felicity*. A proper Londoner, allergic to dirt, but oh-so-fond of *other* people’s countryside retreats—especially if they’ve already done the hard work.
One Saturday, without so much as a text, a car rolled up. Out spilled Felicity’s entire brood—her, her husband Nigel, and their two feral children. *”Lottieee, darling! We’ve come for a barbecue!”* she trilled from the gate.
I was gobsmacked, but what could I do? Family. I showed them around, offered tea. They trampled straight onto the clean porch in their muddy shoes, and the chaos began.
Ladies, it wasn’t a visit. It was a *siege*. Nigel plonked his massive grill right atop my climbing roses. The children stampeded through the peonies, snapping stems. Felicity swanned about like the Queen herself, barking orders: *”Lottie, fetch some salad!”* *”Where do you keep the clean towels?”* They left behind crushed flowerbeds, trampled grass, and a mountain of rubbish.
I stood in the wreckage, blinking back tears.
And that, my dears, was only the *beginning*. They came *every* weekend. No shame. Left dishes unwashed, trash everywhere. Once, I arrived to find they’d used my brand-new gardening gloves to scrub their filthy grill. *The audacity.*
That night, I tried reasoning with my husband. *”I’ve poured my soul into this place,”* I whispered. *”It *hurts*, seeing it ruined.”* But my soft-hearted man just sighed.
*”I get it, love. But she’s my sister. Can’t just turn her away. We’re family. Let’s not make a fuss.”*
And *that’s* when I knew—a *fuss* was inevitable. My little Eden had become a barbecue wasteland. My *”family”* wiped their feet on me. So, a plan took shape. Cold. Precise. *Tall.*
The next week, I withdrew a hefty sum from our joint account. When my husband saw the alert, his jaw nearly hit the floor.
*”Lottie, have you lost the plot?! What’s this for?”*
*”Family bonding, darling,”* I said, smiling my most enigmatic smile. *”You’ll see.”*
All Saturday, the cottage buzzed with workmen. Quick, efficient—like they knew time was short. My husband hovered, baffled. I lounged in a deckchair, sipping iced tea, directing the operation.
At *exactly* six, the final screw went in. I would’ve paid good money to see my husband’s face.
There, slicing our garden clean in two, stood a two-metre steel fence.
One side—our cottage, the porch, my beloved flowerbeds. The other—the wild barbecue zone, weeds and all. In the fence, a small gate. With a *very* sturdy lock.
*”What… what is *this*?”* he spluttered.
*”Compromise, darling,”* I said sweetly. *”This half is *mine*. The other? Your precious family’s. Let Felicity barbecue upside down if she likes—she’s got her own turf now.”*
Right on cue, Felicity’s car pulled up. She stepped out, saw the fence, and froze. Her face—oh, *priceless*. Shock. Outrage. Pure *indignation*.
She shrieked, phoned my husband, demanded answers. I just lifted my deckchair and carried it *behind* the fence—to where *I* ruled.
So tell me, honestly—was I too harsh? Or sometimes, to protect your little piece of heaven, do you just need a *very, very tall fence*?
