And this weekend, we found ourselves in possession of acres of expensive roofs - every one of which has a hole in it.

“How’s everything going?” Elizabeth wanted to know. “Aren’t you lonely…all by yourself in that big place?”

“Oh…it’s going very well. Just 130 more to do.”

“One hundred and thirty what?”

“Windows…Yes, I’m painting the windows. Well, I’m painting the ones that aren’t broken. At this rate, I’ll be home sometime next year.”

A house is not an investment; it’s a consumer item. Just as with any other consumer item, the less of it you buy…the less you regret it later. And here we offer a groveling confession…a painful mia culpa…a humbling admission: going against all our own rules, and against common sense too, we now find ourselves in possession of the Chateau de Problemes sans Fin. Yes, a grand place it is. Sumptuous. Majestic. Magnificent. It is a pile, in other words. A heap of trouble. A monument of merde.

It is a long story. It is a bubble story, of sorts… one that began, like all bubbles, in self-deception…and then progressed into dull farce and now approaches the tragic, loathsome end - to be followed, we hope, by redemption.

The goal was to create a genteel conference center. We spend so much time learning and teaching, (often we don’t know which) we decided tit would make sense to have a place where we could do so regularly…grandly…where we could gather our writers and analysts from all over the world…and spend time in a dignified setting learning our metier - without disturbing the other guests. That is the advantage of having your own place - you can make your own rules. But the disadvantage is obvious too - you have to take out your own trash…and take care of the roof…and figure out what to do with the cows.

We spent the week at a conference there last week. How could we not notice that half the electrical outlets didn’t work? Or, that bits of the floor popped up when we walked over it? Or that the walls were cracked…and paint was peeling off the woodwork? Or that a piece of the roof was missing?

Come the weekend, we were ready to put on our overalls and get to work.

But first, we will give you an insight: after lettuce, houses are probably the worst investment you can make. It is not like an ETF - which costs almost nothing to maintain and never gets you up in the middle of the night. Even the charges from hedge funds seem light by comparison. Just get a quote or two on replacing a slate roof the size of a football field. Or, maybe you’d like to replace a few windows - remember, the historical society requires that they be just like the old ones!

The whole conference center project fell in tatters - shredded by the combined efforts of historical preservationists and modern world improvers. The improvers insisted on ameliorations that would make the world a better, safer place - an elevator for the handicapped, special rails to keep people from falling out of window, exit lamps and fire extinguishers under every seat cushion. The preservationists on the other hand, wanted everything to stay exactly as it was. Elevator? You’ve got to be kidding. Guardrails? Over our dead bodies!

If only we could have gotten away with it!

So the project fell back on its instigator. We tried delegating the problems to others. We tried ignoring them. We tried waiting the problems out. Nothing worked. So, as a last resort, we are going to try actually taking care of them.

That was how we came to be dressed in rags and painting a window, when a Mercedes drove up.

“Is the owner around?” asked its well-dressed driver.

“I’m the owner.”

“Are you sure…you, the owner?”

At first, he thought that maybe we didn’t understand French. Then, realizing that we had understood each other. He gave a malicious chuckle.

“Oh…I see.”

Until tomorrow