(no subject)
WHO: Vimes and OPEN
WHERE: Police station downtown.
WHEN: Wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff...meaning that one thread could be today, and another could be from several days ago. (Give me a heads up if we're backdating any threads, please.)
WARNINGS: Should be none.
SUMMARY: This is an open thread for anybody who needs to talk with Vimes, interview for a job with him, anything.
FORMAT: Whatever works for everybody, I'm easy.
A good copper's desk is covered in paperwork. Vimes has a very interesting attitude toward paperwork, though. If it was important enough, then nobody should be taking to the time to write it down, and instead they should be out solving whatever was generating the paperwork. So he usually just waited for the screaming to hit a certain pitch before he'd truly dig through his paperwork.
Usually. He was up to his neck in papers, now. It was...almost as if he was still taking a strange sort of refuge from this concrete and glass city that was filled with guns. Granted, he'd sooner have given Foul Ol' Ron a tongue bath than admit that to himself.
Interruptions were sure to happen. It was just the nature of the job. The moment you got your thoughts moving in a correct direction (although far from the direction of "taking refuge"), somebody would come and interrupt. It was the gods' way of playing silly buggers.
WHERE: Police station downtown.
WHEN: Wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff...meaning that one thread could be today, and another could be from several days ago. (Give me a heads up if we're backdating any threads, please.)
WARNINGS: Should be none.
SUMMARY: This is an open thread for anybody who needs to talk with Vimes, interview for a job with him, anything.
FORMAT: Whatever works for everybody, I'm easy.
A good copper's desk is covered in paperwork. Vimes has a very interesting attitude toward paperwork, though. If it was important enough, then nobody should be taking to the time to write it down, and instead they should be out solving whatever was generating the paperwork. So he usually just waited for the screaming to hit a certain pitch before he'd truly dig through his paperwork.
Usually. He was up to his neck in papers, now. It was...almost as if he was still taking a strange sort of refuge from this concrete and glass city that was filled with guns. Granted, he'd sooner have given Foul Ol' Ron a tongue bath than admit that to himself.
Interruptions were sure to happen. It was just the nature of the job. The moment you got your thoughts moving in a correct direction (although far from the direction of "taking refuge"), somebody would come and interrupt. It was the gods' way of playing silly buggers.