The Passive-Agressive Art of Denying A Woman Her Fuel
You’d think, in rural Ireland, turf would be sacred. In a normal household, getting turf delivered is simple: it arrives, it gets stored and you warm your home.
But alas, we’re back in bullyyates land, where access to fuel is political and the turf shed is apparently a throne room reserved for one. Turf just isn’t fuel, its a weapon of control.
Lets talk logistics:
I need to store 4 tonnes of turf. I am now being forced to move the turf by hand because someone doesn’t want me near the shed – this isn’t just petty. Its calculated. Its cold in the house. I’ve paid for it. I need somewhere to put it. Simple enough except when your brother has decided that turf is now a form of psychological warfare.
The shed is there. It’s functional. Its right beside the house. And yet, its blocked by farm equipment (for the first time in 50 years) and an invisible wall of pettiness. Access denied. Apparently, turf sheds are now private galleries for unused farm equipment and my ability to heat my home is irrelevant.
The latest solution offered?
‘Oh you can access through the tiny side door for now. . 4 foot tall! The one covered by galvanize and broken dreams’.
Translation: ‘ Sure you can have access. But only if you climb in like a raccoon.’ I guess if you can’t control the person you control the turf.
And because I dare to challenge this arrangement with logic and spine I get a solicitors letter!
Because turf, my friends, is no longer a heating source.
It is a battle standard.
Lesson of the day: Fuel your soul, fuel your stove and never let anyone tell you where you can stack your turf.
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