Sweet Revenge: The Therapy No One Talks About

There’s a particular flavour of satisfaction that comes from sweet revenge.

Not the full-blown, burn-the-house-down sort of vengeance you see in films. No. I’m talking about the deliciously small, morally questionable acts that wouldn’t make a therapist proud, but would absolutely make your best mate spit their drink out laughing.

I’ve had my moments, of course. Sending glitter bomb cards in the post. Writing characters into books. I even set up a fake dating profile once, a rather camp one at that, for a hairdresser who decided I didn't bring enough class to the relationship... Oh, to be a fly on the salon wall when those chaps sat in his chair asking for the 'extra services'. But none quite compare to my 18-month saga with Andy (names changed, obviously, because he is absolutely the type to sue!)

See, we were the definition of 'on and off'. More off than on. The kind of relationship where your friends stop asking how it’s going and start asking if you’re OK. Addictive, chaotic, magnetic... like sticking your tongue on a battery for fun.

But when it ended (for the third time), I decided not to cry, or mope, or post sad quotes about heartbreak. No. I opted to channel my energy into something far more therapeutic: beautifully unnecessary sweet revenge.

The Cats That Never Existed

Andy’s flat had a strict 'No Pets' policy. It was one of the few rules he ever followed. So when he ghosted my messages and calls after this particularly dramatic split, I may have… anonymously tipped off his landlord about his two cats.

Did he have cats? No.

Did two members of staff from the office still turn up at 9am with a clipboard? Absolutely.

According to a neighbour of his, Andy answered the door in his boxers, still bleary eyed from a late night, while they searched his kitchen cupboards and checked behind the sofa for imaginary felines. The confused man messaged me later that day, not to apologise, but to ask if I’d said anything to his landlord.

I replied with a simple: “Cats? What cats?”

Was it petty? Yes.

Was it satisfying? Oh, it was sweet revenge with whiskers.

The Weather Forecast: 100% Chance of Karma

The fourth time we broke up, Andy wanted his stuff back. Fair enough. So I dutifully packed everything he’d ever left at mine - jumpers, random chargers, a bottle of aftershave he claimed gave him pizzazz. And drove it to his place.

He wasn’t home. But his parking space was.

So I unloaded the lot right there. In neat, passive-aggressive piles. Then, as if the universe approved, it started to rain. All day.

By the time Andy had finished work, his belongings were a sad, soggy mountain of regret. He sent a text that simply said, “Are you serious?”

I didn’t reply. The rain did it for me. And honestly, the rumbles of thunder never sounded so satisfying.

The Work Conference Incident

On another occasion (between break-ups number six and seven) Andy went away on a work trip. Somewhere fancy, where people with job titles like 'Senior Implementation Officer' pretend to be professional while eating too many canapés.

He sent me a few drunken photos from his hotel room. The usual flirty nonsense. Even a video with a rather risqué dance, that in some bars would get him a £50 note tucked between his butt cheeks.

But then, out of nowhere, he called me another woman’s name. Big mistake.

You see, Andy had a company-issued phone and hotel booking, all paid for by his very respectable employer. The same employer who thought he was attending leadership seminars, not interpretive dance night at the Marriott. So, after a short cry into my hoodie and a long moment of reflection (and by reflection, I mean rage), I forwarded the messages (minus the x-rated video - a slightly grey area legally!) to his boss.

Apparently, corporate wasn’t too impressed by his use of company-funded facilities for his extracurriculars. Who'd have thought?!

He called me the next day, part panicking, part furious. I pretended to be asleep. I wasn’t. I was eating toast and watching Friends with a grin that could have powered a small village.

The Convertible Crisis

By the final break-up (number eight, for anyone keeping score), I’d almost grown fond of the drama. Like a series that’s gone on too long but you can’t stop watching.

To set the scene, somewhere in the run up, Andy had given me some company vouchers to buy a few bits I needed for my kids (who were not his kids, you'll be relieved to know!) Technically it hadn’t cost him anything, but they’d saved me a small fortune.

However, after the inevitable ditching, I decided to be the bigger person.

The bigger person with a large estate car and a flexible sense of justice.

I loaded up everything I’d bought with those vouchers, including an oversized red buggy, and drove to the retail park he worked at. Pulled up alongside his shiny convertible. And left the items, all of them, next to his car.

I was halfway home when my phone started buzzing. Seventeen missed calls demanding that I return to the crime scene. But instead, I turned the music up and sang along, windows down, therapy complete. It was sweet revenge with surround sound.

And Andy? Well, he had to drive home with the roof down, in high winds and even higher levels of humiliation. Somewhere on that motorway, surrounded by flying receipts and wounded pride, karma buckled itself in beside him.

It’s been years since we last spoke. And I don’t hate him. In fact, I hope he’s doing alright. But looking back, I can honestly say that this sweet revenge healed me faster than any self-help group ever could.

Because, call me childish, but there’s something wildly empowering about taking control in the tiniest, most ridiculous ways possible. It’s not about malice - it’s about closure. A tiny, glitter-covered middle finger to the past.

Not that I'm saying we should all go paint blackcurrant jam across our ex’s car windscreens (a story I share in my next book, Feel-Good Therapy for Dysfunctional Goats, which I hope to release in early 2026) but sometimes, a touch of well-timed pettiness is good for the soul.

It’s a reminder that we survived, that we’re cleverer than we give ourselves credit for, and that folk probably shouldn't cross a woman with both emotional damage and access to the internet.

So, that’s my confession. My little anthology of chaos. And I'd love to hear yours!

Tell me your best sweet revenge story, ex-related or otherwise. Whether you rearranged someone’s spice rack to...

Korean black garlic seasoning Nutmeg, ground Onion salt Basil, dried

Or sent a 'Trustpilot - would not recommend' review to your ex's new partner via WhatsApp. Because let’s be honest… there’s no better form of group therapy than a shared laugh at someone else’s well-deserved inconvenience.

P.S. If tales of sweet revenge, questionable decisions, and emotional chaos are your cup of tea, you’ll love my book, Raising an Emotionally Charged Ostrich. It’s packed with the same blend of heart, humour, and slightly unhinged honesty - just with fewer exes and more family drama. You can grab a copy over on Amazon, or for a signed edition, just drop me a message.

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 “Revenge may be wicked, but it’s natural.”

 William Makepeace Thackeray