A landlord's life

"Alurm, alurm - to horse" - runs a stage direction in one of Shakespeare's history plays. I feel like taking to horse myself when an apartment alarm goes off, without apparent reason. "To horse" - even in the inner city - seems a better option than ringing Gardai, who have more productive forays than another cursory search of a residential block.

Accompanying Gardai, I have observed behaviour patterns. A uniformed male twosome, searching a female occupied apartment, are reluctant to open a wardrobe or look under a bed and studiously ignore the scattered female underwear, strategically placed to excite any fetishist burglar. On the other hand, young female Gardai form instant "shopping" impressions of the absent occupants and have no hesitation in pursuing their curiosity by opening wardrobes for clues - and no doubt fashion labels. If only to confirm the likely age-group and buying habits of the occupants, you understand.

Thankfully, in all the times I have been called out, I have never yet found an intruder lurking under a bed. Nor have I found signs of forced entry. I have, however, found windows a tiny bit ajar, faulty latch locks on doors and - on one sad occasion - a demented pigeon on its last flutters, as it repeatedly banged against a window pane, in an effort to fly high and achieve open space. I have confronted a tomcat who gained entry through the kitchen air extractor and turned into a savage cheetah when confronted with a mad landlord wielding a brush in an effort to get him out. I don't know who ended up the more manic, me or the recidivist cheetah. I was "effing and blindin" at full strength, with the happy exertions of street-reared man returning to his roots. A sight, I was assured by the scared tenant, as frightening to her as to wild animals.

In this case having the desired effect, as the tom chose flight rather than fight, back up the air extractor, leaving lumps of his fur behind and one panting landlord whose exertions caused the tenant to back-off a few paces while I recovered my sanity.

What puzzles me in all of this is - what do alarms do? Yes, I know they go manic on a windy day, on a calm night, on a wet night, on a dry night and at any times inconvenient to neighbours. They go off especially on Saturday mornings, when a chunk of the workforce is having a lie-in. They bang away at weekends, when owners are absent for exactly that amount of time it takes listeners to become frazzled. In my own neighbourhood, for instance, a trendy couple disappear every weekend, the alarm bangs away for the duration of their absence, recording - for potential thieves - their movements.

What can they be guarding? Hardly a sense of neighbourliness. More likely an inflated idea of their importance in asset-gathering, in the new Ireland to which they are heirs of discontent. Having a lot, wanting more and wishing the world to know about it, via a piece of electronic fallibility that cannot distinguish a forced entry from a gust of wind.

I used to install alarms, as insurance companies insisted on them for insuring contents. Now I know it is all a swizz and do not fit them anymore. If the tenant wants to insure their household goods, which have never been so cheap, let them deal with the insurance companies. But not fit an alarm on my premises.

Sometimes on golf courses, I meet owners of alarm companies and insurance executives, in merry rounds, which cause my paranoiac mind to compare them to another merry group - council planners and developers cackling at the 19th. Not anymore on my back, guys.

A tenant rang, complaining her alarm was ringing, she could not turn it off. Her daughter's ghetto blaster triggered the incontinent banging - I could hear it behind her on the phone. As I was hundreds of miles away, I told her to snip the wire. She thanked me. The vasectomy did the trick. She does not call me anymore and as far as I know, she is still safe.