As Sir Stanley Weston rode his noble stallion across the British countryside, he couldn’t help but notice how beautiful the afternoon had become. The past week’s rain and cold promised another dreary day of more cold and rain--thunderstorms, even--but Nature broke that promise and gave England a cloudless sky and warm air. It was a welcome change, and Sir Weston was happy for it.

But that Sir Weston... this title thing was something that he just couldn’t get used to, having attained it only recently–-five days ago, actually. He preferred that people just call him Stanley, but those who knew of his "promotion" simply wouldn’t allow themselves to be so informal as to use his first name, unless it was preceded by Sir and immediately followed by Weston. It was a new phenomenon that burrowed its way into his nervous system and caused his eyes to roll back in his head, his arms to flail wildly about, and his mouth and larynx to work together to utter the words, "Please, just call me Stanley!"

The people who witnessed this behavior usually responded with, "Yes, Sir Stanley Weston, whatever you wish," which elicited a fresh bout of eye-rolling and arm-flailing from Stanley before he gave up and went on about his business.

This ride in the countryside served the dual purpose of calming his nerves and leading him to a very important appointment that he just couldn’t miss. He noticed that the day was waxing toward three o’clock, and he spurred his horse onward so as not to be late.

The grove of trees that surrounded the estate now stood in full view. Stanley slowed his horse to a canter and followed the path through the little forest. Upon reaching the clearing on the other side, he dismounted and tied the horse to a nearby post. He gazed at the house-–mansion, rather-–for a moment: it stood fully two stories high, and the timbers which comprised its construction were strong and majestic. Smoke curled up from the chimney, and Stanley breathed in the aroma of burning wood, which always seemed to set his mind at ease. Off in the distance, church bells sang their three o’clock song and Stanley resumed his way to the front door of the estate with a sigh.

A manservant answered his knock, as always, and escorted Stanley through a broad, masterfully decorated hallway. All along the walls stood suits of armor, swords clutched in the hollow fingers; above each hung a beautiful tapestry with a different coat of arms woven into each one, and between them, leaded-glass wall lamps lit the corridor with a pale, flickering light. The hallway led to the den, where the master of the house conducted his business. Stanley entered the familiar room with a little more trepidation than usual, as the past several days had been most trying for him and he had much to relate to the wizened old man who would arrive shortly.

He sat down on the settee, which stood rather prescriptively in front of a large, inviting leather chair, then stood up again and began to pace the room. As he marched his way to the window, the man he’d been waiting for grumbled his way into the room, and Stanley whirled around to face him.

"I told Barnes to replace those blasted lightbulbs! He says it adds atmosphere, but atmosphere be damned! My vision's bad enough without those horrid lights flickering all over the place." The man dumped his briefcase on the desk and turned to Stanley. "So, I hear you’re moving up in the world. No more ‘Stanley Weston the Computer Systems Manager,’ or whatever; now you’re ‘Sir Stanley Weston the Hero of the Nation!’ The Queen herself escorted you to your new country home, as the papers tell it. A fine estate, complete with housekeeping staff and stable hands. Quite a fine development, this is!"

As Stanley listened, his countenance transformed from worry to woe, and he stopped dead as though he’d just stared into the eyes of Medusa.

"Speak up, man!" the old man said as he made his way to the fireplace. He picked up the iron poker and shoved the logs around with a "hmmmph." He turned to Stanley and waved the poker at him. "You have to learn to be more open to new circumstances! We talk about this every week, and every week, you assure me that you’re making progress; yet, every week, I find more evidence that you’re not getting anywhere. What do you have to say to that?"

Stanley broke out of his trance and slumped into the couch.

"Dr. Middleton, it’s not that I can’t handle this new circumstance--"

"Hmmmph!"

"Okay, it is that I can’t handle this new circumstance. But they’ve made a grave mistake! I really don’t deserve to be knighted!"

"Well, did Elton John deserve it? What did he do? Did he save the life of the only rightful heir to the throne of England, thereby thwarting civil unrest and mass hysteria?" Dr. Middleton continued to wave the poker at Stanley. "Did he, at the same time, uncover a plot by an extremist IRA faction to overthrow the crown and take over the monarchy? I don’t think so."

With his point made, Dr. Middleton set the poker back on its hook and sat down on the leather chair opposite Stanley, who held his head in his hands and had been shaking it in denial the whole time.

"It was all an accident," he mumbled, and looked up at his psychiatrist. "I tripped. I said some things that they interpreted as a tip-off. I’m a stumbling buffoon!"

"Why didn’t you tell that to anyone?" Dr. Middleton calmly asked.

"I tried to, but they were all too busy taking snapshots and knighting me and shuffling me off to the country." He stood up and walked to the window. "At least the last couple of days have been quiet. I’ve gone riding every day since I’ve been there. But even that damned horse is better fit for knighthood than I am! Do you know his name is Lancelot?"

"Really; I saw him outside. Fine beast, what?" Dr. Middleton turned in his chair to look at Stanley. "Well, why don’t we get to the bottom of this mess and determine who deserves what. Tell me what happened, if you would, please."

Stanley sighed and sat back down on the settee.

"Okay, it went like this..."

I woke up at 6am, as always, put on my bathrobe, and went out to get the morning paper. I found it in the shrubs next to the door, as always, because that blasted newsboy insists on throwing the paper from the street. For the life of me, I’ll never understand why he can’t take the extra five seconds to walk to the door–-he could even ride his bike up the walk, for all I care–-and set the paper nicely on the step. When it’s in the shrubs, it gets all wet from the dew, and then it’s impossible to make any sense out of the first couple of pages. At least he’s consistent, I suppose.