In advance of the broken arm

OMG. The road works are back again, for the third time. Now they're going to be digging up the middle of my street, right outside my house. Why, why, why was this not done when the rest of the street was dug up six months ago? Why was it not done when the feeder pipes were repaired? The outfit doing it (Pipeworks) are the biggest lot of useless morons I've ever seen. They are slow and stupid - obviously someone has not done their job properly or they wouldn't be back here again. They've never bothered to notify us about what they're doing either, or care to estimate how long it will take them. At the moment they have unloaded the digger and dumped it in the gutter. One large fat fool is sitting in his van, chowing down on a pie (they are the only outfit I know that have an hour for morning tea). The others are nowhere to be seen. I've not seen the like since the bad old days of the Ministry of Works pre 1987, when it took at least five men to lift one shovel of dirt. With another five men to supervise them.
   And I don't like leaving my house while they are there, as the only time my house was burgled was when we had a road crew in the next street. A coupla hours for lunch, what else is there to do but scope out the neighbourhood? I think it's called salary supplementisation. What a bunch of jerks. Unfortunately, the crims have realised that putting on a hard hat and a high vis vest makes a person all but invisible in the city; no one (well, hardly anyone) will question you or why you are on private property. One poor woman was raped because she opened her door to some bastard posing as a workman.
   A workman came to the door the other day asking to use the water from my front garden tap. I talked to him through the living room window (conveniently right next to the front door), but it's a bit worrying that I might be out in the garden if someone comes round. Still, I'll usually be armed with a deadly weapon in the shape  of a spade, trowel, rake or bucket of foul smelling liquid manure. Hence the picture of Duchamp's In advance of the broken arm, a sinister and subtle title if ever there was one.