I showed a condominium apartment to a father-son pair the other day. The son is headed to graduate school. He needs a place to live near school for a few years. My job was to help these out-of-towners find that place.

Figuring that grad students don't need fancy digs, for my first pick I chose a bargainpriced place to show the duo. The apartment was clean and bright but located on a busy highway thus the price. To my chagrin, the din of the constant traffic outside was overwhelming. It was loud from the moment the other real estate agent opened the front door.

The father-son pair are seasoned kidders, a running comedy routine really. They fell into an immediate banter about the noise and earplugs, loud music and their real estate agent's (namely me) lack of discretion and good taste.

All the while, during the gag routine, the apartment owner's agent maintained a clenched teeth smile. Nothing we three guys said could get her to utter a negative word about the place or the rumbling, vibrating ruckus passing by which made the home such a tough sell.

As is customary, the seller's agent accompanied dad, grad student and me out the door at the conclusion of our little tour. When we got to the curb the clenched teeth smile relaxed on the seller's agent's face.

"The owner has a tape recorder going during all the showings," the agent relayed to us, explaining her standoffish stance in face of the obvious. "The recording system is motion activated from the moment you walk in the door."

Oh my.

I trace my own paranoia about being overheard by the wrong ears back to the eighth grade. That's when many of us got our first visit to Washington, D.C., and the halls of Congress. Somewhere on the tour, in some grand lobby, a spot is pointed out where one can stand and hear what's being said by unsuspecting others on the opposite side of the huge rotunda.

"Loose lips sink ships." the tour guide quips in describing the political secrets heard from that very spot.

Aha!

Years ago I got a late night phone call from a lady from Florida. This woman was one of several heirs to a probate estate I was handling. She had come to town to spy on the situation and protect her interests in a contested matter where the various family members did not trust each other.

This call took place in the days before cell phones. The lady was calling me from a pay phone outside a grocery. The point of her call was to inform me that she was staying overnight in her recently departed mother's home. This residence was off limits to all family members. I had no authority to bend the rules about the house for anyone, and I told her so.

Her reply went something on the order that well now, I knew she was going to break the rules but she was going to keep the lights off and not park a car in the drive and no one would ever be the wiser if I didn't spill the beans. She didn't want her siblings to know she was in town, let alone staying in the mother's home.

Too bad for her. It turned out that of all the pay phones to use in the world, this clandestine heir chose the one next to a phone one of her nephews was using at the time. Her secret excursion from eight states away was quickly announced to various family members long before she unpacked her toothbrush.

The other day my cell phone recorded another person's lunch conversation. I was this lady's last call before she put her phone away in her tote bag. Somehow the phone got jostled, it redialed my number and my phone dutifully recorded the table talk.

Oh dear.

With all this listening I imagine going on, well I really must work on something more interesting to say