Batting .750

It felt like the College Boards were coming this morning -- final inspections on the electrical permit, the mechanical permit (HVAC, mostly), the plumbing permit and the permit for the deduct meter, which gives us a break on water that won't enter the sewer system (pool, gardens).

Matt (who's never failed an inspection), Dennis and Charles arrived to button up a few things before the electrical guy got there -- and wouldn't you know it, I had two light cans out of their sockets and in hand when he arrived, switching out some wall-washers for eyeball lamps.

Denny had already mounted the bedroom roof to mount the last of the missing fixtures, a spotlight for the little fountain at the end of the pool.

I gasped when I saw him on the roof and was glad that Matt hadn't seen his son so precariously hanging on for a swan dive into the pool. But soon after, Matt was out ordering Dennis onto a ladder instead of the roof.

And my fears about the electrical and mechanical permits were for naught: flying colors, in this case green and pink.

Derwood, the plumbing inspector, came by and looked under sinks and into crannies, and all was well. He passed the house system just fine. Then came the deduct meter -- which, he noted, measured water volume in cubic feet rather than gallons. No go.

I called Mrs. Roberts, who I think came as close as possible for her to a curse: "Oh, my."

I'll have to see whether that can block a Certificate of Occupancy, which would let us actually move in to the place.

In the middle of it all, the insurance appraiser came by, to attach some hard dollars to the soft spots this house occupies.

Robert, who kept incredibly busy cleaning bathroom tile and bringing cabinets back to life, was beside himself: He wants to move in this weekend, but for that we need a Certificate of Occupancy and we still have pool inspections scheduled for Friday and Monday, to go, and then the final Big Inspection, with a Historic Commission component we know we'll flunk but have already agreed to post a bond for.

So this weekend isn't going to happen, and it was about as crushing for him as the Historic Commis- sion's rulings on windows have been for me.

So we went down Duval a bit to Crabby Dick's, had drinks and dinner, entertained by a very chatty maitre d' and a Brazilian waiter, and slouched to the apartment for yet another few nights before we get to sleep in a house that looks lived-in, but echoes empty because we're following the law.