All I wanted was peace, a roof over my head and a modest pile of turf to keep the cold out. What I got instead was a front-row seat to a saga so dramatic, it makes soap operas look like mild weather reports.
This isn’t just a story of land, residency or sibling rivalry. No, dear reader, this is the chronicle of Bully Yates, a man who turned a modest inheritance into full-blown psychological warfare. Grab a cup of tea and something stronger if you have it. You’re in for a turf tale with more twists than a country road.
Episode 1: – The Gaslight Years.
Have you ever been in a conversation where you know exactly what happened but somehow end up apologizing anyway? ‘I never said that. You’re imagining things again’. That line was on repeat for years. Conversations twisted into emotional pretzels. Truth? Optional. Reality? Negotiable.This wasn’t conflict. This was theatre, directed, produced and starring Bully Yates.
Episode 2: The Great Turf Heist.
One cold evening, I noticed something odd. My carefully stacked turf – gone. Vanished. Like it had marched off in protest. Bully, meanwhile was toasty warm, smiling like a man who definitely didn’t just ‘relocate’ someone else’s winter fuel. I wish I could say this was petty. But it wasn’t about turf. It was about control. And turf control is power at Faurel Hill.
Episode 3: Surveillance and Silence.
New additions began appearing at the house: mysterious cameras, blinking red lights and an eerie sense of being watched. No one asked. No one told. And when I emailed – twice, about boundaries, access, anything? Crickets. Security, they said. For what, exactly? A turf uprising?
Episode 4: The Executor Who Wouldn’t Reply.
Nothing screams ‘family unity’ like an executor who disappears as soon as you ask a question. Two emails. No response. Three weeks. Still nothing. What’s the opposite of estate planning? Estate hiding. And it turns out, ignoring someone is just as effective as saying ‘no’ – only with less effort.
Episode 5: Residency, Rejection & Ridiculousness.
I was legally granted residency. Fact. Signed, sealed and (supposedly) respected. Bully Yates? He acted like I’d tried to pitch a tent on the Queen’s lawn. Suddenly, everything was contested. Silent treatments escalated into cold wars. The daffodils I’d planted seemed to wilt from the sheer tension in the air. It wasn’t about the house anymore. It was about who ‘deserved’ to belong.
Epilogue: From Turf to Triumph (Almost).
Here’s the truth: I’m still here. I’m still stacking turf. I’m still making tea. And I’m still telling the story, one blog post at a time. This space, Under the Will, Over the Drama, has become more than a blog. It’s a lifeline, a loudspeaker and maybe even a laugh when it’s most needed. I might not own the land. But I own my story. And that, dear reader, is worth its weight in briquettes.
Comments welcome. Commiserations optional. And if you’ve ever survived your own Bully Yates, pull up a chair. You’re in good company.
UNDER THE WILL... OVER THE DRAMA... 
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