I Want a Squire

I want a squire. Not an AI personal assistant. A squire.

AI assistants schedule meetings. They manage calendars. They answer emails and phone calls. They share slides. They transcribe your conversations. They are AI but also check with AI.

Squires are different. Squires have history. They have romance. They carry shields. AI checks with them.

Consider my days. I rise. I look at my devices. I write and write to a lot of people. I have meetings. I dine. I watch prestige television. I sleep. An AI assistant would add efficiency to this cycle. A squire would add meaning.

A squire would announce phone calls with gravity. “My lord, your mother is on the line with questions about Thanksgiving.” The gravity would make questions seem important. Perhaps they are.

When I enter a hall, my squire would already be there. He would have assessed the mood. He would have secured the best seat. He would know when to bring me a cordial and when to suggest a strategic retreat.

My squire would maintain my armor. A squire understands moats. He understands ceremony.

An AI assistant will make a to-do list. My squire makes a not-to-do list.

My squire knows optimization but also discretion.

An AI assistant gives thumbnail bios of attendees at the event. My squire knows which of them know my exes and how that will matter.

My squire knows the best parking spaces. He will carry an extra scarf and my higher heels for later in his satchel

An AI assistant says, “Your 2 PM is here.” A squire announces, “The Duke of Marketing awaits your pleasure.” One is information. The other is a vibe.

My squire would carry my banner. I don’t have a banner. Yet there would be one nonetheless. Something with wolves, probably. Or a condor, which I always mix up with cormorants.

If I am stuck in traffic (which would not happen because my squire is excellent) but if I were, he would tell me tales of ancient battles. When I’m anxious about deadlines, my squire would remind me of heroes who faced worse odds.

I require someone who polishes things. Modern homes lack polish. My squire would polish my doorknobs. My boots. The brass buttons on the jacket I would buy specifically to have brass buttons.

AI assistants have no need for attire. Squires wear livery. Tunics with my insignia. Wolf banners again. Condors.

My squire would learn from me. Not spreadsheet skills or email management. The things that matter. How to judge character. How to stand in a doorway.

I would be a better person with a squire. He would remember every word of my conversation. He would be watching, learning, silently taking notes.

An AI assistant keeps you on schedule. A squire keeps you honorable.

When I am wrong, my squire would never say so directly. He would clear his throat. He would reference some historical precedent that ended poorly. He would raise an eyebrow. He would take out his phone and show me photos of cormorants and how they are not condors.

My squire would be prepared for emergencies. A first aid kit and a sword.

I imagine my squire holding my coffee while I pick out shoes. There is dignity in this arrangement that a cupholder or side table cannot provide.

When I accomplish something, my squire would not say “good job.” He would bow slightly. To be the recipient of a bow is something else entirely.

A squire addresses practical matters with style. When planning a trip, my squire would have beautiful maps to augment the phone app. The maps would indicate birds and foliage we might see. And dangers.

I would pay my squire well. I would provide room and board. I would teach him falconry, or he would teach me.

In moments of crisis, my squire would remain calm. He would have seen worse in the Hundred Years’ War. He hasn’t, of course. But he would act as if he had.

An AI assistant says, “Your mother is calling again about Thanksgiving.” A squire says, “The Lady of the Northern Realm still has questions.” He would gaze thoughtfully into middle distance while I thought about my decision. Family matters a squire leaves to me.

At night, my squire would turn down my bed. He would lay out tomorrow’s clothes. He would report on everything he had read that day by my friends, my foes, my exes. He would prepare reports on how I could do better tomorrow. He would remark on the growth of my realm. As I slept he would send thank you notes and notes of encouragement to the wonderful young people I met that day. With a quill pen.

I want a squire because I want a witness. Someone who sees the narrative arc. Someone who remembers what I said last year and holds me to it.

AI assistants do not fathom mortality. Squires are loyal until death.

In old age, my squire would compile my memoirs. He would make me sound braver than I was. He would omit my pettiness. He would emphasize that I knew my large birds.

A squire in the doorway makes life worth squiring for.