I used to live in a narrow lane in a house with a narrow entrance to the drive (it is a former vicarage with an impressive gateway). I had an old bashed-up Volvo estate. I arrived home from work to find a woman in a Chelsea tractor parked up opposite my drive, making it impossible for me to swing out to turn into my drive. I pulled up behind her and gestured for her to move up a bit. She stuck her sour-faced velvet alice-banded head out of her window and gestured to me to overtake. I pointed towards my drive; she ignored me. I got out of my car, went up to her window and said, in a tone thick with sarcasm: " Is it all right for me to get into my OWN drive?" Her face was worth a guinea a box, as my Ma would have said. I think it was a class thing, based on my appearance. But decent people don't judge people on appearances, so you were right to reject their attempt to oust you.
