Feeding the Grump

I’m fairly sure that when I’m on my deathbed, I’ll still be cursing Benji Gange’s name.

My neighbor paints his gate purple. His experiments with organic farming drift onto my land. He feeds me casseroles while we argue about everything from water rights to rugby selections. For five years, I’ve told myself he’s the worst thing to happen to farming since foot rot.

Then my orphan lamb escapes, and we end up tangled in a hedge together (don’t ask), spying on something that turns my whole world upside down. Suddenly, I realize that all the vegetables I leave on his doorstep and the casseroles he makes me might not be just neighborly gestures. And maybe the way my pulse races during our arguments isn’t about the disputed thistle paddock at all.

Is it possible that the biggest thorn in my side is exactly what I’ve been missing all along?