There was a time when I considered myself quite civilised. I recycle. I drink green tea. I use words like "communal”. But then came the parking wars.

Nothing extravagant. Just the slow, creeping realisation that in certain neighbourhoods, public parking isn’t public at all. It’s claimed through silent rules, unspoken rituals, and long-standing acts of territorial theatre. Your garage is for hoarding. Your car belongs in front of someone else’s house.

At first, I was confused. Then mildly irritated. Then I found myself standing at the window like a hawk, watching who parked where and how often, muttering things I won’t repeat here.

And then one day, while reading yet another grim news story about a neighbour dispute escalating to full-blown madness - something involving a chainsaw or a hatchet - I felt... understanding. Not approval, of course. Just... empathy.

It turns out we are all just a few blocked driveways away from a moral rebrand.

Some discover their primal side in the wilderness. I found mine between a flowerpot, a tyre mark, and the sound of an idling engine just a bit too close to my kitchen window.

So no, I didn’t wield a hatchet. But I did contemplate how many potted plants it would take to create a “decorative boundary” that coincidentally blocks a car. Which, frankly, is step one.