Episode 98- Meter Men and Other Middle-Aged Power Fantasies…

Well well well… guess who was here again today?

Yes. Himself.

The Lord of the Faurel Hill. The High Priest of Poles and Wires. The man who reads a meter like it’s a sacred rite, and always, always, leaves the flap open just enough to say:

“I was here.”

Every single time. Only when I’m at work. Never a knock. Never a word.
Just the quiet telltale flap left ajar, like a cat bringing in a dead mouse, not because it’s useful, but because it makes a point.

He pays the electricity bill, yes. But let’s not pretend it’s an act of generosity. He pays it because it powers his cattle operation, the water pumps, the electric fences, the whole empire of mooing and munching that he’s running across the land. And the idea of splitting it? Well, that would cost a fortune, and there’s no realistic way to divide the water line between one woman and a herd of thirsty bovines.

I don’t use as much water as a field of Holsteins. I’m not out here flooding fields or washing silage bales. But still, somehow, it’s been implied that I’m the burden. The leech. The one sipping tea and showering once a day, like it’s draining the national grid.

And here’s the part that really galls me:

When my father died, or more precisely, when his body was still warm, I was told by Dad’s solicitor (who, surprise surprise, was instructed by Bully) that I would be responsible for the electricity bill.

Excuse me?

How does that work?

He uses the bulk of it, for his animals, his fencing, his business, and I’m supposed to pay for it?

What next?

Do I cover the cow feed while I’m at it? Start footing the diesel bill for the tractors I’m not allowed near? It’s not just insulting, it’s strategic.
It’s about control. About rewriting the story so that I become the problem, the unreasonable one, the dependent, the outsider in my own home-place.

But I’ve seen too much now to be gaslit into guilt. Every flap left open, every whisper from a solicitor, every carefully placed misunderstanding, it all paints the same picture:

This isn’t about money. It’s about power.
It’s about one man holding on to control in every way he still can, from the will, to the wiring, to the damned water pipes.

And me? I’m done tiptoeing.

So go on, Bully.

Keep opening flaps and trying to close doors behind me. Leave your fingerprints all over the land like it’ll prove something.

It only proves one thing:
You’re still playing games.
And I’m no longer a piece on your board.

Mae 🧡

(with Granny Frass shaking her head from the Other Side, saying, “The man’s a gobshite. Next time he comes to read a meter, hand him a mirror instead.”)