I suspect the plumber of lurking around in the street, surveiling the building until he's absolutely certain that Elvis and I have both left, then letting him self in with his ill-gotten keys and performing a bit of sabotage so I'll have to let him back in.

I wouldn't put it past him, you know.

As I write this, the locksmith is changing the lock on my door.

He is bald. Not, again, anything to do with male-pattern and perhaps a bit too much testosterone causes.

Summer's coming, I guess.

He is fitting a new lock into the bank vault I call my front door. Not that uncommon, really, the bank vault style door. Italians, you see, are very particular about security. I wouldn't say paranoid, exactly, but you can't ever be too careful. Including, like my Italian teacher, undoing two keyed locks and two deadbolts to let me in to her house. At noon, in a neighborhood that is not bad at all. Then redoing them once I'm inside, undoing them an hour later when our lesson is over, and redoing them again once I'm out. And she's not terribly unusual, my language teacher.

It is an expensive lock. Apparently, it is French. I've never heard of French locks being the ultimate in door acouterments, or the nemesis of the international burglars. But a French lock is what Landlady (or perhaps her father) had installed, so a French lock is what is required to replace my own comprimised security.

And from what he is charging me, it must be a couture lock. Haute couture.

He's had to take apart my door to replace it. The outside half is heavy metal, the inner-portion rather flimsy looking wood. Since intruders are likely to come, by definition, from the outside, I'm not worried about the plywood half. It's there for aesthetics. Sadly, it pretty much fails in the aesthetic department, even with a generous coating of paint. It does, however, appear far more cosy than the thick grey metal of the outward facing side.

When you turn the key, six round bolts come out of the door, fitting themselves securely into the thick, grey metal frame of my door. I have only the one keyed lock, plus one deadbolt. But, with seven tongues of metal plugging themselves into the door-frame, I've got 175% more securing power than my teacher, or something along those lines. I should feel proud.

It feels odd, to be sitting here at the table, typing away, while the locksmith works on the other side of the room. Then again, what should I say to him? "Hey, nice hammer you got there!" Or, "Oooh, nice wrist action on that wrench-- bet that comes in handy!"

Somehow, I don't think so.

He's finished now, and as I paid him, I noticed that he had pretty eyes. More noticeable without the hair, I guess. Like Michael Stipe. I also noticed by his (literally) five-o'clock shadow, that he did, indeed, have some of that male-pattern business going on, albeit way premature.

By the way, we haven't really gotten a new lock. Oh no.

What we have here are "Cylinders of High Security, with Keys."

Haute S�ret�.

Makes it all seem worthwhile, doesn't it?

Let's hope Elvis agrees. I just told him what the monetary damage was on the phone, and he didn't say much.

Although he might be waiting to deliver the bad news in person.

I figure I'll get Landlady to stump up for at least a chunk of it. It was her fault too, for forking over the keys on some flimsy excuse and without my approval.

I'm just happy it's all over.

Although it never seems to ever be All Over, at least not in my life.