storms in teacups

Wandered into the pharmacy.
"That was an interesting letter," comments my cousin John from behind the counter above the hubbub of a noisy and demonstrative clientele.
He is clearly referring to Eilis Philips' letter to the editor of the Bridge magazine excoriating my critique of a recent drama group production.
All South Kildare is in uproar over it.
Her letter I mean.
Not my critique.
And by uproar I mean that the peasants seems to be applauding her efforts.
"The thing is I don't need any new enemies," I groan to my cousin like a heffalump in pain.
"Ah Eilis won't fall out with you," says John.
"John you know Eilis Philips," I persist.
"Okay, she won't fall out with you forever," sez he with a meaningful stress on the last word.
My handsome preraphaelite features turn a bit gothic.
"I'd boycott her damn hairdressing salon," I tell him bitterly. "That would teach her. Only I still owe her for the last few haircuts. It's not really boycotting, is it? If I still owe her money and I just don't pay my bills?"
"No," sez John, "it's stealing."