Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine; they belong to Maureen Jennings, Shaftesbury (which I can NEVER spell right on the first go-round), and the CBC. Also, I'm assuming these were/are actual streets in Toronto but since I've never been, and I'm pretty sure this is shot on Shaftesbury (and there I go again-grrr!) backlot...all geography is purely made up.

Down on the Corner, "Murdoch on the Corner," 06x03

It had to be the oddest jaunt in the entirety of Toronto. A strange little zigzag of a street, where Carlton made an almost 90 degree turn, went north for a short block, and then turned west and became Parliament. It was a strange little corner, in more ways than one.

It was a corner George Crabtree knew well. Five minutes' walk from his boarding house, and fifteen minutes from Station House #4. It was best to keep to the east side of the street in the winter, as the wind tended to snake up and over the hat shop and swirl clockwise, so that the snow piled up in front of the butcher's shop. But in the summer, the west side was the best, as there were more awnings on that side to provide shade, and the fire escapes that started in the alley and wound up around to the front above the storefronts also helped-especially when there was laundry stretched on the line between them.

Ten paces onto the short block, and you ran into a gentleman who spent a great deal of time talking to himself. He was not right in the head, but mostly harmless, and George had mostly learned to ignore him. But other times found himself lingering (and dealing with the soapbox preacher going on about the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse-such a difference in style from Reverend Lovell, who preached love and salvation over hell and damnation) just to listen to what sort of internal conversation the gentleman was having with himself. Sometimes, he would get into an argument with himself and George would take hold of his arm and tell the 'other' gentleman to move along or he'd have him arrested, and the argument would cease. Other times, he would surreptitiously take his pencil and write down some of the conversation in his notebook, to use for inspiration later.

The ladies at the millinery shop liked to flirt, (twenty paces from the soapbox preacher) and George tended to avoid them. Unless they were talking to a customer, the women there paid very little mind to anything or anyone, and yet somehow knew everything and everyone that was happening. Otherwise, terribly vain and vapid, in his opinion. If George had to hear one more sales pitch about ribbons or real flowers in the band he would perhaps burn the entire place to the ground himself, just so the shallow conversation would cease.

It was a busy corner and so oftentimes a stranger would appear, trying to sell some newfangled food or invention to the locals, and George would catch himself listening, wide-eyed to whomever it was, knowing that if it turned out to be a confidence trickster that he'd have to run him off into Station House 3's jurisdiction. Let them deal with him. Other times, he found he was the one asking the most questions, being the most intrigued by the new arrival and wishing that he'd thought of it first!

Mrs. Lynd sat on her bench, her umbrella leaning against it, and complimented him on his smile as he walked down her side of the street. He blushed.

The tailor and the butcher were getting into it again out in the middle of the street, and George rolled his eyes, making a note to pass by on his way back to the Station House just to make sure they hadn't killed each other during the course of the afternoon. He caught the tailor's eye and raised an eyebrow in warning. The tailor's response was to mutter something inappropriate in Italian and storm back to his shop.

At least, George assumed it was inappropriate. He hadn't looked like he was complimenting George on his uniform. And when the butcher smirked triumphantly in George's direction, George gave him the same, stern look and he skulked off to his doorway, glowering at the constable.

It was a strange little corner, indeed, he thought, as he walked around in the early morning hustle and bustle of the crowds.

But it was his beat. His corner. And perhaps, he allowed, as he shook his head with a knowing smile and went to go break up yet another argument between the gentleman by the alley and himself, it took a strange man such as himself to walk among them, know them, and protect them.