You don’t notice the moment a petty inconvenience becomes a quiet campaign against your sanity. It’s gradual: a silver Vauxhall Corsa appearing “just for ten minutes,” then twenty, then long enough for my sons to collect late marks and anxious questions about whether lateness meant they were bad. I knocked. I explained. I was told, “You’ll survive.” So I documented instead—twenty-two dawns, twenty-two photographs, timestamped proof that my own driveway had become collateral in Denise’s private battle with the concept of being told no. When the enforcement officer and the truck finally arrived, she burst from her house in a dressing gown, outrage blazing, and watched her certainty buckle under the weight of a case number. She moved the car. Paid the fine. Glared at me like I’d rewritten the laws of physics. For one blessed week, the driveway stayed clear. Then, on Monday morning, her Corsa was back across the entrance, as if nothing had happ… Continues…