A neighbour tore down our shared fence and started building 30cm onto my land

The sound of splintering wood yanked me out of a video call. I peered through the blinds and saw our entire back fence—the one that had stood for twenty years—gone. Just gone. A skip bin sat in Brendan’s driveway, stuffed with the remains. Brendan stood there in hi-vis like he was directing traffic.

I pulled on thongs and marched outside. “Brendan, what the hell?”

He barely glanced at me. “It’s my fence, I’m replacing it.”

“Our fence. It’s on the boundary.”

“Nah, it was on my side. Old survey says so.” He waved a hand at the builder, who was already lining up post-hole diggers.

I stood there, barefoot on the grass, watching the digger bite into the earth. The holes were clearly on my side—thirty centimetres at least. I knew because I’d paced out the back lawn a hundred times while on hold for work calls.

I went inside and fired off a message to our neighbourhood WhatsApp group: “Anyone know what’s happening with Brendan’s fence? He’s just ripped ours down.”

Priya responded within minutes: “Under the Fences Act, he needs to give you 21 days’ notice. Did he serve you anything?”

Nothing. No letter. No knock on the door.

I messaged my husband in Singapore: “Brendan’s building a fence on our land.” He replied with a sad emoji. Useless.

The group chat lit up. “About time, that fence was a wreck,” wrote Marg from number 32. “Can he just do that?” asked someone else. A few people messaged me privately, offering sympathy but no solutions.

Then Priya sent me a screenshot. It was a council planning application from Brendan’s property two years ago. On the plan, the boundary line was drawn differently than what he was now claiming. She wrote: “He knows. He’s trying to grab land before you get a survey done.”

Cold fury settled in my chest. I called a surveyor and paid for an emergency visit. He arrived within the hour, set up his gear, and marked the true boundary with bright orange pegs. Thirty centimetres into Brendan’s side from where the digger had been working.

I took photos, posted them in the group chat, and walked outside. “Brendan, stop. The survey shows you’re on my land.”

He laughed. “That survey’s wrong. I’ve got my own coming Monday.”

“You need to stop now or I’m lodging a complaint with council and VCAT.”

His face hardened. “You’re one of those, aren’t you? Always causing trouble.”

Priya appeared at the boundary, clipboard in hand. “Brendan, let’s be sensible. Joint survey. Both parties pay. Pause construction until it’s done.”

He glared at her, then at me. “Fine. But I’m not paying for your survey.”

“That’s fine,” I said, keeping my voice level. “But the holes stay empty until we have a result we both agree on.”

He turned and walked back into his house, slamming the door.

The group chat was still buzzing when I went inside. Marg had deleted her comment. Someone posted a photo of the orange pegs. I poured a glass of wine and watched the empty post holes through the kitchen window. The battle wasn’t over, but I’d stopped the bleeding. For now.