Conspiracy theories lurk in the twilight zone of sleep deprivation

It was the birthday song that opened our eyes. Finally, after all these years, everything fell into place. Suddenly, we understood.

Paranoia had made us complacent. We had assumed it was all a figment, the product of sleep deprivation. Now we realised there really was a conspiracy against us. It was a conspiracy to deprive us of sleep.

They were all in it together. Week Ending 's mother. The children. The mad midnight-faxer. Tung Chee-hwa, Xu Simin and the Illegal Phone-tappers Association of Hong Kong, a society registered under the Ordinance.

And now this. It was two in the morning. After the previous night's interruptions, Week Ending had turned in early. Sleep had come easily. Tomorrow, for once, we wouldn't be struggling to stay awake all day.

But something troubled our dreams. An irritating, familiar tune kept insinuating itself into whatever fantasy was playing behind our closed eyelids.

Finally awake. To the full horror. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, happy birthday. Happy birthday to you.

Over and over again, comes the thin, tinny melody, from somewhere on the shelf, near the ceiling. Panic. Stand on a chair. Grab whatever is up there. Pull it down fast. Crash. My god! Be quiet, you'll wake the kids, the people downstairs, the fire-brigade. Look in this bag. No, it's still up there. What's that box? Mrs WE's old knitting patterns. But the music's from there. Spill the paper on the floor. You'll wake the whole street. There it is. A card. 'Happy Birthday to a sweet four-year-old.' Three-and-a-half years ago - and now it starts playing? Wave it around. Open and close it. Why won't it stop? Open. Close. Open Close. The music speeds up. The notes jumble. Electronic confusion. Manic discord. Tear off the backing, rip out the wire. Silence. Collapse into bed.