Hell came early this morning. An hour early, to be exact. At 8:03, I was sitting on the toilet, doing my thing, when the citofono went off, sending the cat into a panic. We have a security camera (a by-product of the jewellers), and there is the middle plumber. He was supposed to come at nine, and I hadn't showered etc., or rolled up the carpets, or put up the computers, or any of the other last minute things you must do before the plumbers arrived. Furthermore, W was still in a cold-medicine induced coma-- he was up way to late last night as well. Can't say I didn't warn him.

That is how I found out that my Italian improves dramatically when I am pissed off. So, sent the plumbers packing. Hell, I've spent enough time waiting on them for it to bloody well be their turn to wait, especially since it's their fault. Then went to rouse W, with only partial success, before hopping in the shower.

The plumbers were back in half an hour, ie. still before 9:00. Since I was at least clean and dressed, I let them in. Mid plumber apologized profusely, so that's all right I suppose. So W takes his shower, and I do my hair, and the plumbers commenced dismantling furniture and shoving things around and arguing in Italian.

Then they started knocking holes in the wall. W and I were still hiding out in the bedroom with the cat, who had demanded to be let out into the main room to see what was going on, then begged to be let back in when she realized just how noisy it was out there. Now, on the first floor of our building are some offices. Last week, the tenants moved out and the builders moved in and gutted the place. They've been going at it with jackhammers all last week, and I guess I had thought it was time for them to start something new. Wrong. They're still at it. So now what we have is dueling hammers. When W started humming "Deliverance", I almost laughed, until the full implications of living with it set in. Before he left, he made me promise to call him if I snapped and decided to kill someone, because he wants to watch.

Now it's quarter to twelve. I've been cowering in here (the bedroom) all morning. They're going to lunch, and will be back around 1. Yeah. Time to pick my way through the war zone that was my kitchen and see about food. I wonder if they've parked the microwave somewhere within reach of an outlet? Going out would be the obvious solution, but the guys downstairs have knocked off as well and I want to savor the peace and quiet. Also, I hate to eat alone, especially in restaurants, and this area is rather devoid of take-away. So I'll toast me a sandwich (I left the grill accessable), nuke some soup, and watch an episode of the X Files on DVD.

1:20. Young and Old have returned, without Middle. They went into the bathroom (there's a hole in there, too, plus one in the outside wall, as I discovered on my food foray an hour ago. Also, I forgot that the dishwasher was full of glasses etc. in view of our severe storage shortage, so I had to do my lunch dishes by hand.) So. Plumbers in can, they argue and gesture a lot, and they leave while I'm on the phone. I have no idea when they're coming back, but it's been longer than running down to the truck.

2:45. Young and Old have just buzzed from the ground floor. After a vaudeville conversation-- Il Capo? He's not here. If he's down there, what are you waiting for? I don't know. Third base.-- I have determined that they're waiting for Middle downstairs. I was getting rather nervous. I'd rather have them banging around in the kitchen than all this eerie waiting around. Like they know something I don't and I'm trapped. Can't even pop out for cigs, because if I did, they'd turn up and I'd have the landlord on the phone, pissed as hell. Not that she'd ever let her elegance slip to get pissed off. She'd have her assistant do it.

Whilst I'm hanging around, I figure now's as good a time as any to explain about the plumbers. Italian plumbers, like all bad things, come in threes. Mine do, anyway. There's the middle-aged plumber, and he's in charge. Mine has a floppy moustache and the regulation butt-crack trouser tailoring. Then there's the older plumber, possibly middle's father. He dispenses advice on occasion, and sometimes he argues with Middle, but Middle usually wins. Finally, their's the young apprentice plumber, possibly Middle's son. He gets the nasty icky jobs and the lion's share of heavy lifting. I've noticed that he's letting his hair grow, it's almost down to his shoulders now. This would be a better look if he washed it more. Then again, why do your hair when you're going to spend the day taking a sledgehammer to the walls.

Now they're all here, arguing in the bathroom. Middle has won again, which is good, because his way is more user friendly, and since I'm the user I'm all for it. They're out of here for today. They'll be back tomorrow, with the carpenter, at 8:15. No water tomorrow. No toilets, niente. But tomorrow afternoon or evening, they'll hook it all back up, so our trench will at least have a toilet and shower, so that's something. And Middle made Young shovel up all the rubble they took from the walls. There's a long hole, running the length of my kitchen-area, exposing pipes and wires and so forth. I was out there a minute ago, marvelling at Italian engineering. Actually, I'm marvelling at the fact that we have flushing toilets and running water: these are not large pipes. I'm amazed at the different types of pipes more or less cobbled together: someone obviously shops at remnant sales. I'm marvelling at the fact that the wall stays up, and thankful that there isn't another floor on top of us, although I doubt it's much different on the floors below. Doesn't look very sturdy though. Everything is covered with fine white dust and feline footprints. It's going to get worse, not better.