As for regrets ... 'The thing about me is - I won't say I never use the word 'regret' - but if you ask me about the last time, I have to think very hard. For important things, I think it through quite carefully, which people should do.' That answer, precise, mildly self-congratulatory and admonishing all in one, is quintessential Lau. I particularly enjoyed the way she responded to a query as to whether or not she was impulsive: 'Well, I can't categorically say no but looking back at decisions I've taken ...' Is there any pleasure in all this? 'I don't think pleasure is the first word. But it's not pain. Let me show you my diary, you will faint.' She produced a pocket book, crammed with engagements and, while I managed to remain conscious, I could well imagine the utter tedium of a day slotted with appointments and (I could see them on her desk) endless, unecological forests of papers.

So is she just a girl who can't say no? She looked shocked. 'On social occasions, I almost always say no, with rrrrrare exceptions. But if it's work, I'll be there. Last Sunday, I went to a dinner at Fanling, which is now part of my constituency, it was self-service in a restaurant, they just wanted me to meet them, nothing formal. I spent Sunday reading papers, not even going swimming with my husband, had dinner with him at seven when he got back, took a taxi - it cost $200 - got there at nine, and they appreciated it, they were very pleased I showed up.' That comment about the taxi fare seemed characteristic; one thing which had struck me while ploughing through the microfiches was her constant concern about money. When she was elected in 1991, part of her manifesto was that she would never, unlike other legislators, take an outside job or well-paid sinecure, which is truly admirable because financial hassles have loomed large ever since. She's regularly obliged to rattle a tin on street corners for funds. 'I don't like doing that,' she remarked. 'But, there again, that tells you about another part of me. If something needs to be done, you can be damn sure I'll do it. Privately I would not regard myself as stingy, I would regard myself as a generous person.' Still, an awareness of money is surely a relic of her childhood which was impoverished in the extreme: her father, who had two wives and 18 children, of whom Lau was the youngest, died when she was four and her mother was obliged to become an amah, working in other people's homes and seeing the young Emily perhaps once every three or four months. Without wishing to resort to trite psychology, this perhaps goes a long way towards explaining the high degree of self-reliance which she emanates. From the age of 11, she also started giving private lessons to younger children to help pay for herself.

Did she ever have fun? 'Fun?' she asked in surprise. 'No, not that often.' Then she told me how she'd recently met a woman at a function who'd been at Maryknoll school with her, where she was on the student council, 'And she said she remembered lining up in front of me before class and how none of them dared to speak, even in those days they were scared of me.' She laughed at this, very charmingly, although it occurred to me that such a vignette of stern youth might have caused her a pang. 'No, to a certain extent I like discipline. She said that the sight of me standing up there meant they knew there would be terrible consequences if they didn't behave.' She's now 47, but looks much younger (and - girlish observation - would look even more so if she cut her hair, an opinion I hadn't the courage to voice). Although she's been married twice - once to a British journalist called John Ball and now to barrister Winston Poon Chung-fai - she has had no children. 'Better things to do,' she announced. 'And with the population explosion, it's helpful if someone alleviates the problem.' I thought this might be by way of a joke, but no. Still, it prompted me to ask what makes her laugh, apart from memories of her autocratic schooldays.

'Many things,' replied Lau, earnestly. 'Often, when I speak, people laugh. In a long speech, it's important to have comic relief. I try to have a sense of humour and I think I do. I always try to see the lighter side - but if something needs to be seriously handled, you can be sure I can be very serious.'