The Curious Case of Jack and the Purloined Parsnip, or, How Not to Conduct a Heist (Even Accidentally)
Jack emerged from the shop, his single crutch digging into the pavement like a stubborn badger trying to unearth a particularly unyielding root. Hope? Faith? These were concepts as foreign to Jack as astrophysics to a budgie. He felt lower than a snake's belly in a wagon rut.
But then, like a sudden ray of sunshine bursting through a perpetually gloomy London fog, it dawned on him: only old codgers grumbled. The young, the vibrant, they saw the world through rose-tinted spectacles! This revelation filled him with the sort of giddy optimism usually reserved for lottery winners and toddlers who’ve just discovered mud pies. He set off, crutch tapping a jaunty rhythm, with precisely the same level of direction as a dust bunny in a hurricane.
“Right then,” he muttered to himself, “Adventure awaits!”
Adventure, as it transpired, mainly involved avoiding rogue pigeons and trying not to trip over uneven paving stones. He’d once read, in a newspaper used to wrap his fish and chips, that “Experts say fresh air makes brains happy!” Apparently, clean air caused the brain to churn out endorphins – those little happiness-inducing chemicals. Jack inhaled deeply, imagining his brain doing the foxtrot, only to be immediately assaulted by the fragrant bouquet of a passing refuse lorry. It smelled, he thought, like a public toilet after a football match.
“Ugh,” he groaned, inhaling deeply. “Full of germs, I bet. Viruses doing the polka in my lungs!”
Just then, a voice chirped, “Lovely day for a stroll, innit?”
