Posted on Thursday, 14 August 2003, at 5:43 p.m.

It has been a tiring day. Three meetings (thoroughly mucked-up, thanks to a distracting call from Emma in the morning), a new deal to finalize over lunch that has not, after all, been resolved on, and the prospect of another grueling day tomorrow, does not make for a happy George Knightley.

I have been looking forward to nothing more than some coffee and a few hours of sleep. You can be certain you're getting old if sleep is all you want at the end of a day. But the signs of exhaustion are too pointed to evade. An indication: even my obsessive secretary Larkins has told me to "Get some sleep, sir," in a voice that is almost kindly, which means that either I look my age, or Larkins himself is descending into the yet unexplored paths of compassion and consideration. That, and the fact that for one frenetic moment I almost took Mrs. Elton to be Emma.

Of course, I know that since I am in dire, maybe even terminal, need of sleep, I am probably fated to get no sleep tonight.

The first interruption comes, I'll swear, not five minutes from when I've dropped to sleep on the couch, sacrificing my beloved coffee in favor of avoiding fatigue-induced lunacy, which could be a little dangerous in combination with my omnipresent Emma-psychosis, although I should know that by now it's already too late.

Trill. Trill. Trill. 'Tirra lirra.' That was Lancelot, wasn't it? "Lady of Shalott"? 'Out flew the web and floated wide;/ The mirror crack'd from side to side.' I'm not extraordinarily knowledgeable in the ways of webs and mirrors, but something will certainly crack if I find that this is a telemarketer. Namely, my thin veneer of patience. And my already-questionable sanity. And said telemarketer's eardrums.

It's Emma. Well, at least I can say with perfect honesty that my sanity cracks. One out of three isn't really so bad, is it?

"Mr. Knightley, how are you?"

Wonderful, now that you're talking to me. Perfectly happy, if I ignore the fact that Frank Churchill lives. "I'm fine. A little tired though." But I shouldn't talk like I'm a tired old man. Even if I am one.

"Oh, sorry, didn't mean to take you away from your hard-earned rest, the sleep that knits the raveled sleeve of CEO's - although I've never really understood why it's 'sleeve' rather than 'sleeves.' I mean, even if you go in for all that personification stuff, there really is no reason to believe that care must be a one-armed creature. A sort of Cyclops-in-arms. But that sounds like some kind of mythical knight."

I can't help it; I laugh. "You have a singular imagination, which I refuse to discuss," because it'll scare you out of your wits to find that your 'Mr. Knightley' is so in love with you that he can't talk of you without going into raptures. Or losing his mind.

"Yes, I'm wandering, aren't I? But I'll be more collected now, if that's possible. God, Miss Bates must be contagious - I spent a whole half-hour trying to tell her that Dad is, in fact, not at home. I'll summarize, though. This won't take long."

No, no! Stay! I shouldn't have said that. I'm an idiot. A stupid, stupid man. "No, go ahead. I needed to get - er, stay - up anyway to-" quick, I need a lie. Oh, where's a convenient, believable lie when you need one? "-to look over the McGinnis deal. I think the problem is the share broker, maybe Garrett should get a replacement," and this is a very creditable piece of fiction, so I can't understand why she's laughing at the other end.

"Mr. Knightley, if I wanted to talk business, I'd have called you at the office," and I would've missed the call, being at innumerable meetings discussing vile, unspeakable things, and then would have ranted and raved in front of the poker-faced Larkins, who probably already suspects more than is good for me as an employer. "As it is, I needed more personal help. I'm going out tonight, but I forgot to tell Dad. He's away on that trip to Bath, and you know how he gets when I don't answer his phone calls." Which is to say that he calls the police, the ambulance, and, if at all possible, the CID. He loves his daughter to death and would single-handedly slay any dragons of trouble that threaten her.

Too bad I can't convince him that Frank Churchill is trouble.

"Yes, I know how he gets."

"Well, I was hoping you could perhaps try to call him?" Oh, that lovable stress on the penultimate of the pseudo-question - as if I could really deny her anything she asks for. "I've been trying all afternoon but no one's picking up. He's probably discussing the good old days with Mrs. Bates. The trouble is, I have to leave at nine for a date, and it's already eight-thirty."

"Oh?" Oh is a wonderful sound. It successfully masks my murderous rage. So, Frank Churchill is taking her away from her filial obligations? I knew he was a bad influence. The man has absolutely no moral sense! Asking her to go out on a date with her poor father miles away! And no one to make certain she comes home! The manipulative little -

"Yes, Anne - you know Anne Weston - wants me to come to a dinner with her and Richard." Then again, Emma could probably benefit from a night away from a lonely house that reminds her of her father. And of course she's fulfilling her obligations - she just asked me to call Mr. Woodhouse, didn't she? "Frank Churchill will be there too." I know she's blushing on the other side, or as close to blushing as Emma Woodhouse will ever get.

On the other hand, I'm no replacement for Emma. She ought to talk to her father herself. Yes, she should. It's only right that I refuse. There are a million reasons I could give. I'm a busy man. My phone is broken, despite the fact that I'm talking on it right now. The line will be disconnected at exactly the minute it is absolutely essential to talk to Mr. Woodhouse. A buffalo rampage destroyed my fifth-floor apartment. I'll be struck dead by lightening when your father asks if you're safe and I say yes against my conviction. I had a premonition last night (supported by two independent oracles) that if I make this phone call, Frank Churchill will die a very slow, tortured, and painful death at my hands. And that's true, except for the oracle part. I get premonitions like that every night, and sometimes even during the day. (They're not hallucinations, I tell you! They're showing my future, I'm sure of it.)

I'll refuse. "Fine, I'll call him." If this is one of those damned gentlemanly scruples -

I can feel her glow over the telephone line, which, if you think about it, is distinctly odd. Either the line is burning up, or it's growing sentient, or I'm experiencing the first symptoms of the onset of premature senility.

Senile. As if it isn't bad enough that I'm ten years older than her, now I have to sound like her grandfather.

"Thank you, Mr. Knightley!" Even her gratitude can't give me pleasure now. It's probably the gratitude towards an elderly, senile friend. I mean to say, she's kind to her father, as well. God forbid that she think of me as that - "I'll make this up to you. How about dinner tomorrow? Father's returning tomorrow afternoon, you see, and I was thinking of having a little family party for him. Just the Westons and us, you know."

How I delight in the words 'family party' and 'us.' Which goes to show that I am not only turning old and senile, but also sentimental and, to be quite honest, pathetic. "That sounds wonderful," I say sincerely. "What time?"

"Oh, I haven't decided yet. I'll call you tomorrow at the office when I'm sure. I'm glad you can come though. It wouldn't be the same without you. Bye, and thanks for the help!" Her voice tapers into the steady buzz of the line, but I hold on to the receiver. 'It wouldn't be the same without you.'

I should, by any reckoning, be too old to feel all warm and fuzzy at that. Really. I must have grown very pitiable that such a little statement could cause 'such tremblings, such flutterings.' I put the phone down, lie back on the couch on my stomach, and grin stupidly into the cushion. She would miss me.

Half an hour of daydreaming later, I realize that I ought to actually call Mr. Woodhouse, after doing which I promptly return to my sleep and dreams.

The next time I wake up, I find myself on the bed, which means that I'm moving from Tennyson to The Moonstone, or aliens have abducted me and left me in my bedroom rather than my living room.

After the shock of falling in love, everything seems possible.

I shake my head to wake myself up from an odd dream in which Emma is rowing a boat, waving at me, until Frank Churchill suddenly gets up from the bottom of the boat (where he's been lying, I suppose), in full armor, then starts screeching a tuneless song comprised mostly of 'tirra lirra' and the sound of cracking mirrors. Emma, understandably tiring of this harangue, weaves a baldric on a handy loom, which she ultimately uses to bind and gag the knight before pushing him into the river.

Overall, a cheery sort of dream.

That, of course, makes me even angrier that something has roused me from this happy vision. After a moment of contemplation of the horrors that await the disturber, I find that my cell phone is ringing insistently. This gives me two choices: I can throw the phone out the window or actually answer.

Not much of a choice, is it, I think, while prying open the window and hoping to recapture my dream in the next doze. However, a sliver of moonlight (it must be later than I thought) falls on the display to reveal that the call is from my own office.

Now, credulous though love might have made me, it has not yet made me understand Schrodinger. I suppose it is possible for me to be at the office and at home at the same time, but isn't it too much to ask a man deeply in love and deeply in sleep to comprehend quantum physics? I decide, therefore, to settle on the possibility that someone has a very good reason to call me from my office.

I pick up the phone wearily, hoping that whoever it is, finishes their work quickly. "Hello, Knightley speaking."

"Mr. Knightley, it's William Larkins. How are you sir?"

"Sleepy. Tired. 'I see a lily on my brow,/ With anguish moist and fever-dew,/ And on my cheeks a fading rose/ Fast withereth too....' Is that why you called me, at this godforsaken hour of," a quick look at my watch, "one in the morning?"

"No sir, you see, sir, there has been an attempted robbery in the building."

"For God's sake, Larkins. Do we, or do we not, have a security guard? Call him forth from the shadows to the light and for the love of Pete let me sleep." I'm not ashamed of my tone of pleading at the end. Discretion is the better part of valor, and sleep is the better part of life, and, therefore, pleading is the better part of valor if it gets me some sleep. I love syllogisms.

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry to disturb you, sir," as if I'll ever believe that! "but although the guard was able to perceive that someone was breaking in, he apparently lost his head and called the police before going after the man himself, and the man escaped in the ensuing hue-and-cry. The police are here sir, and they want to know if any of your possessions or papers are missing."

After cursing Larkins, the guard, and the poor police nearly out of existence, I mutter something that hopefully means that I'll be there in a quarter of an hour.

What with my sleep-drugged state and 'visions of Emma dancing in my head,' though, I don't arrive at the office until half an hour later, only to meet Larkins sleeping in a chair. Sleeping. He wakes me up in the middle of the night, only to fall asleep when I finally get there.

Needless to say, I'm not very gentle in waking him up, after which I question him rather brutally, only to be taken away to be questioned not-quite-so-brutally myself by the jovial and rather portly inspector and his subordinates. Well, it does seem brutal to me, considering they keep me at it for over an hour, especially since I don't value any of my possessions much at the moment except some gifts from Emma that I check for the moment I come into the room. So it seems quite pointless to me to be asked what papers were there yesterday morning, what papers were there this morning, what papers are here now, what papers will be there tomorrow. 'When you were born, where you were born, why you were born. How many ice-cream cones you eat in a week and how many you don't eat in a week.'

When the seemingly interminable line of questions finally ends, I look around my office with a tired gaze. Too bad I have come back here tomorrow. No, later today. *Groan.* Too bad I can't stay here all night. That would save me the time it takes to get here from my apartme-

Wait, why can't I? I wonder if anyone would notice if I went to sleep curled on my chair. After all, it is a large, comfy chair. I will surely get a crick in my neck sleeping in the odd position and develop major, maybe even deadly, cramps, but what is that to a few extra seconds of sleep?

"Well, Mr. Knightley, I think you have nothing to worry about," says the inspector, who has a round face as ruddy as the more generously proportioned type of country squire. Little does he know that I have to worry about unending meetings, Emma, unsatisfied clients, Frank Churchill, the glazed look in my eyes due to lack of sleep, Emma and Frank Churchill together, my propensity to relax into plans of murder when I think of Frank Churchill, the terror that is the Eltons, Emma, Emma, Emma. The policeman continues, "You say that nothing's been taken, which means that there's going to be very little paperwork, although we've some work to do here tonight."

Let us hold a moment of silence for the death of my brilliant idea.

But soft! A light in yonder gloom breaks! It is another idea, and it spells sleep. "Excuse me, Inspector. Does this mean that the office won't be usable tomorrow?" Oh dazzling idea, oh wonderful sleep. Oh frabjulous day, callooh callay!

The inspector laughs. "No, no, don't worry about that sir." Actually, you're making me worry now. "The office will be back in order by morning, and you'll be rid of us as well." After which he laughs thoroughly at his own joke and leaves me to wallow alone in my misery. Which I do, as I head home driving by the grace of God alone since I can't seem to keep my eyes open.

As soon as I get to the dark building that looks vaguely familiar as my regular abode, I subconsciously note that something is wrong. Hoping that it is anything except the demolition of my bed, I go open the door and walk into the dark hallway, stubbing my toe against a descendent of Poe's pallid bust of Pallas and limping the rest of the way towards the elevator. I entertain myself in the waiting-period by cursing rather colorfully while hopping on foot. I have already progressed to the French versions before I realize that something is, indeed, definitely wrong.

I put my injured foot down as I contemplate the situation. My foot that is hurt because the hall is dark. Which it shouldn't be. And the elevator is not coming down. Which means, thoughts moving viscously through my brain, that there must be a power outage. On the heels of that thought comes the bloodcurdling idea that I might not be able to get to my bed.

That leads to an even more voluminous barrage of cursing as I run, full of adrenaline, to the stairs, where the relief of finding them unblocked as nearly gives me heart failure as the suspicion that it is blocked has given me a heart attack. I climb the five floors rather rapidly, the fear ebbing away but slowly, and wrestle with the door for a few minutes before I realize that I have not unlocked it.

There should be a warning on the road to love: Leaving Sanity City Limits.

Getting my keys out and fitting the right one in the lock is a matter of excruciating detail, so it is with a sense of relief that I stumble into the hallway.

And fall over something in that hall. Making a mental note to call the plastic surgeon about my nose (which is now surely broken) in the morning, I crawl in the general direction of my bedroom, until I suddenly fetch up against a pair of soft, cotton-textured, pillar shaped obstructions.

"What the -"

"Now, now, George, is that any way to greet your beloved brother?"

"More like bother, I think. Are you a figment of my diseased imagination or simply a recurring theme of my more nightmarish moments?"

"Neither, thou thicker-than-water. I have come as bearer of excellent news, my dear old bird."

"John," I say, heaving myself up to my elbows, "have I ever told you how horrid your expressions are? I am neither the blood of your veins nor a pigeon. A falcon, perhaps, but not your ordinary bird."

John grins that grin that would, I'm sure, convince his fellow lawyers that he was certifiable if they ever saw it. "In short, neither flesh nor fowl, eh?"

I hang my head in weariness. "You do realize, don't you, that if I were a little less tired, I would have killed you thinking you a burglar?"

John laughs so uproariously that it convinces even me that he must be having a 'certifiable' fit. "My dear boy, no burglar would have waited after they heard you dallying with your lock. Does it normally take you five minutes to open your door or are you drunk?"

"Precisely the question I was about to ask you," I murmur while getting to my feet, trying to regain my customary position of advantage. "Are you boshed or are you insane?"

Again that psychotically-happy laugh. "No, my dear brother, I am merely punch-drunk on love" here twirling with a sickening lightness into a dark room "and happiness."

I follow him into the room, managing to collide into all the things John has avoided. "That still does not explain why you must be in my bedroom in the wee hours of the morning. With a power outage, in addition."

"This is the drawing room, not the bedroom, you silly dear." And he plops down on the vague outline of the sofa as if to prove it.

"My drawing room then. What electrically attractive properties does my drawing room have that it draws you in at three in the morning and draws away all my electricity at the same time?" A pause for an almighty yawn. "On the other hand, don't answer that. If Isabella's kicked you out for the night, you can sleep in the spare room. But no heart-to-hearts tonight." I light a candle, then turn to John. "And if you ever call me a silly dear again, I swear by all that's holy that you will spend the rest of your life regretting it. Now go to sleep."

"Isabella didn't kick me out. She's in Bath with her father."

I knew it. The only thing that could have made my situation worse was a reminder of the Woodhouses, so here they are. If there is a heaven, somebody up there doesn't like me very much.

"That's wonderful news indeed. And now that you've delivered it, how about scooting away to your little home-away-from-home? Don't, please, be dainty of leave-taking, but shift away. I need sleep. Sleep," I say, growing a little wistful, "that wonderful death of each day's life and meetings and robberies, sore labor's perfumed shower, the Bengay of hurt minds, the equal of -"

During my poetic interlude, John has settled down comfortably on the sofa, which does not bode well for my tired state.

"I've never liked MacBeth as much as you do, you know." He wouldn't, would he, since he's the one murdering my sleep. "And I'm not here for a bed. I am, as I think I mentioned, the bearer of good news."

"Well, bear in mind how Achilles treated his messengers. What's the deal?" I go into the kitchen to pour out drinks. If we must sit out the night and exchange messages like we were drunk, we might as well make it authentic.

John takes his drink looking like Humpty-Dumpty-got-hold-of-good-champagne. I expect his lower jaw to fall to the floor anytime now. "If it happens as I hope and it's a she instead of a he, you get to be him for her."

Then again, I don't think he really needs this drink. "Pray can't you be a little more cryptic? And drink up, I like my sphinxes as drunk as sin, so that they make even less sense."

John tilts his head to one side like a sparrow, the delirious grin still on his face. "Isabella's pregnant."

The next two hours are spent in sincere congratulations and happiness and toasting my unborn niece (as John insists the baby will be) and god-daughter (as John insists the baby will be, if it's a girl). Having unriddled the riddler and feeling rather happy myself, I ask after Isabella.

"Oh, she's fine. Just a little nervous. You know, after last time."

He starts twiddling with the stem of the empty wine glass, and suddenly he looks like the nine-year-old I remember, sitting in his father's room on a too-large-for-comfort chair, anxious and somewhat guilty. Along the frame of the picture yet undoubtedly its dominating force walks a figure that seems larger-than-life but for its earnest character that diffuses through the scene, touching boy with an importance that he is scarcely aware of himself. Mr. George Knightley, Senior, stands alongside the large chair and puts a hand, strong but surprisingly fine-lined, on the boy's shoulder, who looks up at his father and at heaven.

The champagne glasses travel back to the kitchen, as they have been used quite enough this evening - night - drat it all, this morning. "Well, Henry did give Isabella a little trouble, but it all turned out well in the end, didn't it? And it'll go fine this time around too. So relax."

Which he does, so thoroughly, that he is deep in the throes of dreams before I return, leaving me alone in the semi-dark with only half-a-candle for company. Selfish brute.

I lug his podiatric portions onto the sofa, hope that he will fall off as a punishment for forcing me to reminisce, and go to my own room with the candle.

Where I promptly set my bed on fire.

That beds and bed coverings are so inherently flammable I did not know before tonight. That candles should not be present in the same room as said fire hazards, I now gather. One lesson learned. After emptying practically the whole city's water supply on the blaze, I manage to get in under control.

I finally roll into my bed. My very comfortable, firm, and deep, albeit a bit charred and thoroughly wet and squelchy, bed. If I fall into Morpheus' embrace right now, I should be able to get a decent hour of sleep. A quarter till would work just as wel-

Beep beep. Beep beep. Beep beep- Alarm clocks were created to be the bane of my sleepy existence. And I had to buy the blooming one that doesn't have a snooze button. And I had to put it on the other side of the room to counteract my predilection to roll right over and fall asleep again. Not to mention the fact that blasted bird brigade has gathered near my window and begun its reveille and march. I get up and look at the haggard reflection in the mirror that is currently sporting stubble and bloodshot eyes with bags under them.

' "The curse is come upon me," cried/ The Lady of Shalott.' That's appropriate. Very appropriate. That's why she's so anxious to lie down in the boat. She wants to sleep, of course, and is being kept awake by the person she loves who doesn't love her in return. And by burgled offices and incompetent security and joy-drunk siblings and flaming beds. As for all the rest of the weird stuff - the webs and mirrors and looms and barges floating down the Thames - well, sleep-deprivation can do odd things to you.

John is still asleep, and il ne faut pas réveiller le chat (ou frérè) qui dor, so I leave him with the blasted alarm next to his head, set for half-an-hour from now. By then I'll probably have committed suicide out of sheer fatigue, so he won't be able to yell at me for not having woken him up.

The office somehow looks different today. It might be a remnant of the adventure of the night before, or it might simply be the fact that my sleep-laden eyes are half-closed and I look through mists of slumber and scattered dreams of Emma 'lying, robed in snowy white.' Larkins greets me with a halted "good-morning" as he scrutinizes my undoubtedly bedraggled state.

"Good God, sir, you look like you stayed up all night."

How could you possibly have guessed?

"And a good bloody morning to you to, Larkins. See if you can manage to get a me cup of coffee, that's a good soul." The polished glass surface of a table shows me a tangled head of hair. "And much as I would enjoy shocking my clients with this 'tousled mane' as some idiotic poet would surely call it, I think you'd best get me a comb as well."

Larkins goes out of the room, and good riddance. I feel a little grumpy. A day full of unimaginably dull meetings and fatally boring people, not to mention *shudder* Augusta Elton, will surely be lethal in my drained state. As I am contemplating this grim fate, Larkins head appears midair, which at first sight seems to be the result of my deplorable night, but then makes sense when I realize that he is looking in through the door, probably too afraid of me in my wild state to come in completely. Sometimes I think I am at least partially responsible for his firm belief in Hobbes. Sigh.

"What is it, Larkins?" I ask in a tone that seems amazingly like patience.

"Excuse me, sir, but you have a call from Miss Woodhouse. Should I put it through, sir?"

Human reaction is not normally that fast, especially not sleep-deprived human reaction. I can only say that I have grabbed up the phone before poor Larkins can make heads or tails of my delighted yell.

"Hello, Mr. Knightley?" says the voice I love most, that I have always loved, hearing which seems the equivalent of twenty hours of sleep, and a greater compliment I cannot bestow at the moment. The elixir, the ambrosia, the meaning of my life. My Emma.

"Emma," I say, trying to sigh inaudibly, a feat that my rejuvenated brain attempts slowly, "good morning."

"Same to you. Thanks for your help last night, Dad called me earlier today. I just wanted to tell you that I think seven in the evening should be fine for the dinner. I asked the Westons last night and they said it's fine. So...will you be able to make it? Or will the inimitable Larkins keep your nose to the grindstone till late? Should I reschedule the meeting of the knights of the round table?"

"Not at all. I will banish Larkins to the land of the never-ending secretarial paperwork and emerge victorious to take my rightful place at the table."

Emma laughs, and it is truly a wonderful sound. To say that it turns my heart over appears awfully cliché, but I can't help it: that odd, fanciful organ does various spectacular gymnastics within my ribcage. "Very well then, Sir Knightley, but beware that be thou as conscientious as a Knightley, as cunning as a Woodhouse, thou shalt not escape the Larkins. Goodbye, see you this evening."

Suddenly, this day is looking much better.