My Neighbour Was Stealing Bags of My Manure at Night – Last Night I Generously Sprinkled Some Yeast In

You wont believe what Ive been dealing with latelymy neighbours been pinching my compost by the sackful in the middle of the night. Well, last night, I did something about it: tipped in a generous dose of yeast for her troubles.

So this morning, I looked over the fence and said, not even as a question, more like a fact, Youve been round to my compost heap again with your buckets, havent you?

Lindamy neighbour over the fencedidnt so much as flinch. She just stood in her veg patch, leaning on her hoe, giving me a look like Id unfairly accused her of something outrageous.
Oh, Alice, dont go on! Youve got enough to fill a football pitch over there. Whats a bit of compost for your childhood friend and neighbour between mates?

I shot a look at what was left of my once-mountainous heap at the end of the garden.
Its not just a bit of compost, Linda. Thats five hundred quid a lorry-load, plus delivery. Its mine, and you know it.

She rolled her eyes with theatrical flair.
Well, enjoy it then! Only took a couple of buckets for my cucumbers its not like my state pension stretches to lorry-loads, does it?

She always knows just which nerve to flick. Lindas got this talent for framing herself as lifes eternal victim: its always the council, the weather, solar flares, andnaturallyme, since my tomatoes ripen ahead of hers.

By the time I got back inside, I was absolutely fumingnot about the cost, really, or even the compost itself, but the cheek of her thinking I was some kind of fool.

It wasnt just a couple of buckets either. Every night, about two in the morning, youd hear this rustling. Not just a small bucketfulLinda does nothing by halves. She stuffs massive builders bags full and hauls them off like shes running some sort of underground supply chain.

Back in the kitchen, Tom was sitting there chomping his toast and doing the crossword.
She been at it again? he asked, barely glancing up.
Yep. And called me stingy for good measure.
Well, set a trap then.
Yeah right, and explain to the police why next doors only got one foot left. Needs a bit more brains than brute force, love.

I peered out the window at her greenhousethe pride of the cul-de-sac. Linda loves swanning around, telling everyone her plants are a special variety and shes got the magic touch. Magic at helping herself to my hard work, more like.

That night, sleep wasnt happening. I just lay there, listening. Theres the odd dog barking, crickets going, then suddenlyshhh, shhh. The shovel crunching through my precious, perfectly cooked-down compost. Ive covered that thing, cared for it, and now she comes sneaking in like its hers.

Next morning, she was already bustling about her borders.
Morning, Alice! she sang out. Noticed your courgettes are looking a bit yellowwouldnt be a touch of blight, would it?

She was absolutely beaming. The tracks in the grass told me shed carted off at least three bags during the night.

Morning, Linda. Not a chance.

As I made for the shed, my eyes landed on the gardening shelf: seeds, fertilisers, and a big yellow tub of dried yeast meant for the strawberries. Then the perfect lightbulb moment.

Linda always bags up the stolen compost tight into thick plastic sacks and hides them in her greenhouse so they can break down nicely. But in that hot, humid greenhouseits perfect for fermentation.

So, I fetched a bucket of warm water, emptied in all the leftover sugar from the cupboard, and tipped in the whole tub of yeast. It started fizzing up, smelling like the start of a dodgy home brew and sweet, righteous justice.

Night fell, and before she set out on her usual mission, I slipped round outside and poured my special brew right where she cuts through the hedge. Gave the top of the heap a good stir. If youre going to take whats not yours, at least enjoy the full experience.

Back inside, I scrubbed my hands and went to bed feeling like Id put the universe back in balance.
Tom, half-asleep, mumbled, What are you grinning about?
Just looking forward to some good dreams, I said, tucking myself in.

The night passed peacefully. No telltale noisesshe mustve been especially discreet this time.

But the morning well, the sun hadnt even stretched above the rooftops when a scream ripped through the street like a banshee.

Tom and I leapt up. He went dashing to the window in his pants, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
What on earths happened?!

I grabbed my old dressing gown and stepped out for some lovely cool air, only to catch the unmistakable whiff of something sharp and yeasty hanging around. Linda was in her new polytunnel, doors flung wide.

She lookedto put it kindlya bit of a spectacle. Splattered in brown stains like Jackson Pollocks been round. I wandered up to the fence, resisting a grin.

Linda, everything okay? Looks like a pipes burst over there!

She slowly turned to face me, pure panic and sticky mess plastered all over her face.
It it blew up! she croaked. Alice! It was alive!

I had to peer through the fence, biting the inside of my cheek to stop myself roaring with laughter. Her neat pile of stolen compost had sparked proper mayhem inside that greenhouse. The yeast, the heat, everything sealed it had fizzed up, built up pressure, andbam! Bags went everywhere.

The plastic gave way and ejected everything like confetti all over her precious greenhouse. The glass and polycarbonate walls were coated, every surface hit. Even her carefully tended peppers looked like the aftermath of an air raid. And there was Linda, star turn in her own private panto.

So what exploded then? I managed, all innocence.

The bags! she squeaked. I popped in to check andpop! One went, then another! What did you put in there, Alice?!

Me? I looked genuinely shocked. That is my compost, from my own heap. Only thing in its what the cows left behind. What its doing all sealed up in your greenhouse well, thats a mystery for the ages.

Linda just stood there, as you could see the cogs turningif she admits its mine, shes admitting to pinching it; claim its hers, and why did it go off like a firework? She was running off, both in the literal and the metaphorical sense.

This is sabotage! she finally burst out. You tried to poison me!

With all-natural fertiliser? I shrugged. Maybe its just your greenhouse aura? Or someones given you the evil eye? Youre the one who claims to have the magic touch.

Tom took one look at the scene, snorted into his hand and scampered back inside before laughing out loud. Linda grabbed the hose, frantically trying to wash off the evidence of her own mischief.

You could see it was going to be a long day for herthe smell clung on, sturdy as her stubbornness.

All day, the rumour mill was in overdrive. Something about strange bangs at Lindas; some said shed been brewing moonshine, others a meteor had landed. She played it completely dumb and spent the rest of the day scrubbing the greenhouse, not a word to anyone.

She had to haul out all her seedlings and turf the top layer of soilwhatever was left was so strong it nearly killed off even those tough old tomato plants. That evening, for once, she didnt come out for her usual cuppa on the porch.

A week later, another lorry tipped a new compost heap on my usual spot. That night, all was unusually quiet. No rustling by the fence, no shovel noises, no telltale crackling bags.

I wandered outsidethe moonlight shone on a perfectly untouched heap.

Next morning, Linda walked past, deliberately not looking my way. She was now buying her compost from B&Q, bright bags and all, with her own cash.

Morning, neighbour! I called over. Howre your peppers getting on?

She stopped, looked at me. Not a hint of apology, just a silent kind of fearyou could see shed been thoroughly put off by chemistry gone wrong.

Theyre growing, she muttered. Ill manage, thanks. Dont need any of your donations.

Thats brilliant, I smiled. And, if you ever fancy my secret recipe, you know where to find it.

She scowled and made a beeline back to her front door. I went in, made myself a strong cup of tea and sat down.

Honestly, I felt totally at peaceno gloating, no smugnessjust that quiet relief when the worlds tilted back upright. My stuff was left alone, and nobody fancied trying their luck again.

Its not the size of your fence that marks your limits, its the lesson that sticks. Dont stick your hand in someone elses compost heap if youre not ready for what comes out.

And as for that yeast, I keep it handy now. You never know when another garden pest will want to test my generosityeach one gets their own lesson.