As years go by, I see my house ever more often as a fortress. And one with many palpable faults. It was rebuilt around forty years ago from a ruin that must have been a marvel of security in its own time. The last owners, from whom I bought it ten years ago, saw it rather differently, as it is becoming increasingly obvious to me as years go by. Back then, Yugoslavia itself was still a stronghold of some renown. It vanished without a trace about twenty years ago, though. By and by, the house is becoming ever more exposed, and even inviting to all and sundry. Protective walls are needed left and right. Steel shutters are becoming a must, at least from the street and the sides. The terrace needs buttressing, too. A collection of weapons in every nook and cranny completes the essential defenses I now eagerly envisage. Or am I rushing headlong into the future still too distant to worry about at this juncture? One way or another, I occasionally catch myself fortifying my house in my mind. My castle, that is. The last bastion of security worthy of old age.