I have a great deal to say on this subject. From Screamie Wimmin wot attack for no reason to lovers demanding sex, I have tons of stories, history, tales, wisdoms, anecdotes, spiritual journeys, epiphanies and heartache. Some see me as some sort of victim, a too-weird woman with no roots; a rootless tree. Others fear my honesty. Some just want to fuck.
Passive aggressive bullying takes many forms. Where I live, it appears to manifest in a systemic malicious gossip plus action type of way. It is not unusual for my bins to suddenly appear at the top of my lane, blocking access. The last time this happened, I was away at Moniack Mhor, but the culprit did not know that. It is not unusual for me to receive defamatory emails, and, similarly, it is not unusual for me to be invited to join some random couple for sex, or even be stalked, for someone else’s sexual excitement.
I have two wood stoves. I store the wood in the shed. The shed door opens onto the lane. The shed door does not block, or impede access or have any negative affect on anyone. The shed has been there, with the same door, for over one hundred years. An old man used to live in that shed, only fifty years ago. My neighbours complain about the shed door. I have no idea how to react to them. I did think for a while I was losing my mind and needed psychiatric care, but the shrink said I was bloody normal, and I did want to sip gin, topless, in my garden, in the lane, where they pass, but my friend Charlotte told me not to. I had an idea to plant snowdrops in the potholes, to slow down their cars, but Charlotte laughed, so I didn’t.
Instead, I did this. It’s all I know. It is probably as passive aggressive as the complainers, but I am not sure I care anymore….

The Blue Shed Door by Orla Broderick