Consulate Duties - Turnbull's Introduction ((semi-open: the consulate))
((Turnbull is from Due South, before Call of the Wild, but at least after Mountie Sings the Blues.))
Turnbull stood before the television, transfixed as the third end of the curling game came to a finish, leaving both teams tied. He gave a frustrated sigh and returned to dusting The Trudeau Room as commercials came on. Inspector Thatcher was out rubbing elbows with other international representatives in Chicago and Constable Fraser was off doing who-knew-what. That left the Constable to do whatever his personal devices allowed for, and right now, it was taking all the books and items from the shelves lining the walls and giving the place a thorough dusting. He’d forgone the apron today, and simply made certain that he didn’t soil his uniform while he removed unseemly dust-bunnies from corners that hadn’t seen a good dusting in far too long. With Constable Fraser around, there was usually enough activity to prevent Turnbull from tearing the place apart in a proper fashion.
Admittedly, if it didn’t require so much paperwork and extra effort to explain one’s actions to the Inspector, Turnbull would have loved to go on one of Fraser’s many adventures. Chicago was an exciting place, but here he was, at the Canadian Consulate again, with little to do besides a daily report, and cleaning, cooking, or some other mundane activity.
The curling game returned from commercials and immediately he paused, looking back to the television. The commentators were remarking about a previous day’s game that Turnbull had caught the prior evening during dinner. The game had ended in one of his favorite teams losing, and with a groan, he turned back to his shelf, humming one of his favorite Tracy Jenkins songs just loud enough to drown out the depressing replays.
There was a knock at the door that was barely audible over his humming and the TV. Turnbull blinked in confusion, the sound taking a very brief moment to register, and then he set down his cleaning supplies, leaving the gloves on the current shelf, muting the TV and leaving the room. His hat sat on the welcome desk in the hallway, but he didn’t need it so long as the arrival at the door did not require him to leave the building. Quickly brushing his uniform and making sure he was spotless, he gave his brightest smile to the door that blocked his view of whoever was preventing him from watching his curling game, and then opened it; praying he hadn’t forgotten to unlock the door again, barring Constable Fraser from coming inside.
"Hello. Good afternoon and welcome to the Canadian Consulate."
Turnbull stood before the television, transfixed as the third end of the curling game came to a finish, leaving both teams tied. He gave a frustrated sigh and returned to dusting The Trudeau Room as commercials came on. Inspector Thatcher was out rubbing elbows with other international representatives in Chicago and Constable Fraser was off doing who-knew-what. That left the Constable to do whatever his personal devices allowed for, and right now, it was taking all the books and items from the shelves lining the walls and giving the place a thorough dusting. He’d forgone the apron today, and simply made certain that he didn’t soil his uniform while he removed unseemly dust-bunnies from corners that hadn’t seen a good dusting in far too long. With Constable Fraser around, there was usually enough activity to prevent Turnbull from tearing the place apart in a proper fashion.
Admittedly, if it didn’t require so much paperwork and extra effort to explain one’s actions to the Inspector, Turnbull would have loved to go on one of Fraser’s many adventures. Chicago was an exciting place, but here he was, at the Canadian Consulate again, with little to do besides a daily report, and cleaning, cooking, or some other mundane activity.
The curling game returned from commercials and immediately he paused, looking back to the television. The commentators were remarking about a previous day’s game that Turnbull had caught the prior evening during dinner. The game had ended in one of his favorite teams losing, and with a groan, he turned back to his shelf, humming one of his favorite Tracy Jenkins songs just loud enough to drown out the depressing replays.
There was a knock at the door that was barely audible over his humming and the TV. Turnbull blinked in confusion, the sound taking a very brief moment to register, and then he set down his cleaning supplies, leaving the gloves on the current shelf, muting the TV and leaving the room. His hat sat on the welcome desk in the hallway, but he didn’t need it so long as the arrival at the door did not require him to leave the building. Quickly brushing his uniform and making sure he was spotless, he gave his brightest smile to the door that blocked his view of whoever was preventing him from watching his curling game, and then opened it; praying he hadn’t forgotten to unlock the door again, barring Constable Fraser from coming inside.
"Hello. Good afternoon and welcome to the Canadian Consulate."