19centconstable: (Queen Victoria in a bank vault.)
[George is eating an orange. And so can you!

He's also thirty-one again. Yes, George is thirty-one. I know.]

I don't think anyone was poorly done by that, were they? It is a bit strange to recall that I couldn't have even pictured myself as a police officer at that age, as now I can't picture myself as being anything else. Besides a detective, obviously. And a writer.

[George chews thoughtfully.]

Although...I don't believe any of the lads back home always yearned to join the constabulary. Not at our station, anyway. I am pleased it's something modern children seem to dream of.

...I also think you all might appreciate indoor plumbing just a bit more than you do. It really is fantastic.
19centconstable: ([Kid!] You aren't my hat's real father.)
[Someone is holding the communicator carelessly in one hand, as though they don't know it's on. The floor passes by slowly under the camera's lens. Whoever they are, they're walking hesitantly toward something. Bathroom tile appears, and then: the base of the toilet.]

Sweet wounded Jesus. I've died and gone to heaven.

[It's a boy speaking; his voice soft and high, his accent somewhere between Irish, British, and Pirate.

In other words: George Crabtree.]

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Constable George Crabtree

March 2021

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