A man fattened with kegs (flattened crown-cut too), hewn from a split post, comes all the way from the water utility to replace an O-ring on the meter on the front lawn. First, he knocks on the door. Stand back, he then says. The trader of men (in name only) swaps the old tap with new, working under pressure (water, that is). He is as humourless as a petrified bread roll. Does not even clip a smile when I remark, "You won’t have to wash when you get home tonight."  "I'm done,” he retorts, having drunk his fill, and exits via the orderly gate, leaving it slack hanging.