The Breakfast with Sir Watchful Panic
Sir Watchful Panic turned up and put me off my toast…
A Memoir of Mild Terror and Toast
This morning began, as mornings often do, with toast. It was a peaceful toast. A quiet toast. A toast that had not yet committed any crimes.
I was halfway through buttering it when he arrived.
Sir Watchful Panic, Knight of the Eternal Scan, burst through the curtains like a caffeinated moth with a vendetta. His trench coat flapped dramatically, stitched together from old hazard tape and expired anxiety coupons. He carried a clipboard, a monocle, and the unmistakable scent of burnt adrenaline.
“TOAST?” he bellowed, pointing at my plate as if it had just confessed to espionage. “Have you considered the structural instability of carbohydrates?”
I hadn’t.
He paced the kitchen, inspecting the kettle for signs of sabotage. “Boiling water,” he muttered. “Classic distraction technique. While you’re steeping your tea, the ceiling could collapse. Or worse—your neighbour could start humming again.”
I tried to explain that my neighbour was a retired librarian with a fondness for Gregorian chant, but Sir Watchful was already interrogating the fridge.
“Milk expires. Trust no dairy.”
He scribbled something on his clipboard. I suspect it was a drawing of a cow wearing night-vision goggles.
🧠 The Seminar Begins Without warning, he launched into a training session titled “Hypervigilance for Beginners: How to Panic Efficiently.”
Slide 1: “Everything is a threat. Especially things that aren’t.”
Slide 2: “If you feel calm, you’ve missed something.”
Slide 3: “Trust your instincts. Then double-check them. Then panic.”
I asked if there was a certificate. He said yes, but it self-destructs upon completion.
🥄 Spoon-Based Surveillance He confiscated my spoon. “Reflective surfaces are dangerous. You could accidentally glimpse your own serenity.”
I asked if he ever sleeps.
“Sleep is for the emotionally reckless,” he replied, eyes twitching like Morse code. “I nap in five-second bursts between intrusive thoughts.”
💬 A Moment of Truth Just as I was about to fake a phone call to escape, he paused. His shoulders slumped. His monocle fogged.
“I only do this,” he whispered, “because I care. If I stop watching, something might happen. And if something happens, I’ll blame myself. Again.”
And there it was—the crack in the armour. The soft underbelly of the absurd. The reason he exists at all.
I offered him a piece of toast.
He declined. “Too risky.”
📝 Postscript Sir Watchful Panic left the way he arrived—through the curtains, pursued by imaginary consequences. I finished my breakfast in silence, wondering if maybe, just maybe, I should start wearing a helmet indoors.
But I also felt a little less weird.
Because somewhere in the chaos of my mind, there’s a knight in a trench coat, scanning the horizon, trying to keep me safe. Badly. Loudly. But earnestly.
And that, readers, is how I learned to butter my toast with one eye open.