I'll put it down to temporary-on-its-way-to-all-too-permanent insanity, and leave it at that.

Damn plumber.

I had a talk with Landlady today. I know I slag her off for her cheapness, but really she's pretty OK. She apologized to me, first. Middle Plumber had told her-- I guess he figured that I was hardly going to overlook this one, and he'd best do a bit of damage control.

She thought he'd had permission to enter, and she was pissed at him, too. Probably because she's the one that gave him the aforementioned keys. I talked to her about it, and it was clear that he hadn't given her the whole story, or even the major part of it.

Sort of like the last time, when he wanted her to give him the keys so they could knock a hole in the middle of the living room, clear through to outside, and leave it there for several days while I was out of town. (I don't even remember which episode of My Plumbing Hell that was. The numbers are getting ridiculous.) One of the few walls, by the way, that had remained un-holed. Only, now that I look, that's not even true-- I've been sucessful at blanking out the cardboard boxes they slapped over the monster hole, perhaps in the same manner as some Vietnam vets. Forget all about it, until it comes back to haunt you years later. Not that I think my experiences, plumber-wise, are near as traumatizing as the horrors of war. At least, I'm pretty sure they're not.

In any case, I was there that time, refused permission, and even though he tried to get her to do it, she told him there was no way. I guess he decided that his chances of getting away with that kind of crap this time were higher if I didn't know anything about it.

I told her about the stuff falling out of the storage cabinet above the front door after he'd been rooting around in it. I told her about the muddy footprints. I told her about the last time, when they'd dug around in my kitchen drawers, without permission, of course, and used my poultry shears to open bags of cement, then left them on the porch in the rain when they went to lunch.

I told her that I did not trust him anymore. Not that I ever really did, but still.

I told her that I didn't want to see him. Ever again.

I told her that I was withdrawing my permission for them to enter the house when we go to the US, and rip apart our bathroom and do whatever the hell they want to do with the pipes.

I told her that if we move, they can come back after we've left, and not before.

In short, if I ever see that man again, I will use my poultry shears to remove his balls. They're kind of rusty now, and probably have traces of cement on them still, so the potential for infection is very high.

I need to replace them, and I will, but I have no intention of throwing the old ones away. I'll keep them around, keep them handy.

Just in case.

I didn't tell her that, though, about the poultry shears. She might warn him.

And Landlady was cool about it. Agreed with me, even; or at least that she understands.

Actually, I should have figured on that. She won't need to pay them until they've finished. Which is undoubtedly why they're in such a hurry to get started.

The way it stands now, I'll call her when I'm good and ready. She asked me if I could live with the holes, or if I wanted them to come fill it in. I told her that I'd live with it. I have done for two months now, and the sight of them is far preferable to me than the sight of the Three Plumbers.

I don't doubt for one nanosecond that I've seen the last of Middle. I am not naive, by any means. He wants to finish; he wants the money. And he won't be happy to find out that I've cancelled it.

Such a coincidence! I'm not happy either.

Feel my rage, buddy.

So I'm sure he'll be back. He'll show up wanting to drop things off, trying to worm his way in. Well, he's not cluttering up my micro-balcony with more of his crap. I'm not changing my mind. And I'm not putting up with any more of his arrogance. Vaffanculo, Signore Plumber.

Which is why I neglected to tell Landlady that I'm having the locks changed.