Jackpot Jack: A London Farce - страница 4



“Oi, you lot!” he shouted, waving his arms like a demented windmill. “Stop! Think of your health!”

One particularly sprightly lady, her grey hair pulled back in a severe bun, flashed him a withering look. “Get out of the way, sonny!” she barked. “Some of us have got a personal best to beat!”

Jack, utterly convinced he was saving lives, charged onto the course, attempting to block the runners with his outstretched arms. It was a scene worthy of a silent film, all flapping limbs and exaggerated expressions. Chaos reigned! A rogue walking stick took him in the shin, a swarm of lycra-clad grannies descended upon him like angry wasps, and then, oh, the indignity! His foot landed on something soft, squishy, and distinctly yellow.

Down he went, arms flailing, legs akimbo, landing with a resounding “thump” on the unforgiving tarmac. A particularly ripe banana peel, discarded with carefree abandon, had sealed his fate.

He sat up, dazed, clutching his leg. A sharp pain shot through it. “Oh dear,” he groaned, his face a picture of utter misery. “I think I've broken something.”

As a kindly (and slightly smug) paramedic strapped his leg into a sling, Jack couldn't help but reflect on the irony of it all. He'd set out to save the old folks from themselves, and ended up a casualty of his own misguided heroism. Perhaps, just perhaps, he thought, life wasn't quite as simple as he'd imagined. And perhaps, just perhaps, he shouldn't judge a book by its cover – or a marathon runner by their age.

A Cast of Doubt, or How Jack's Leg Met Its Match



Jack found himself perched precariously on a stool in the sterile sanctum of the plaster room. His leg, victim of a rather unfortunate falling throbbed a dull sympathy to the pounding of his anxious heart. Miss Jane, a vision in starched white whose smile held the warmth of a winter frost, bustled about him, her movements a whirlwind of bandages and plaster of Paris. As she began to wind the damp material around his limb, Jack's brow furrowed with the suspicion of a ferret eyeing a particularly ripe plum.

“Ahem,” he began, squirming on the stool like a worm on a hot pavement, “with all due respect, Miss… Nurse, isn't it?”

Miss Jane paused, her eyebrow arching like a startled cat. “Yes, I am Miss Jane, but—“

“Well,” Jack interrupted, his voice oozing with a misplaced confidence, “I'd rather the doctor put the plaster on, you see. No offence meant, of course, but well, you know. Nurses… they aren't exactly brimming with educational success, are they? They’re more akin to flowers blooming in the field, pretty to look at but hardly the keepers of scientific knowledge, don't you think?”

Miss Jane’s smile, already a rare commodity, vanished like steam on a cold windowpane. “And what makes you think I'm not the doctor, Mr. Jack?” she inquired, her tone as sharp as a freshly honed scalpel.

Jack sputtered, his face turning the colour of beetroot jam. “But… but… you're a nurse! Doctors have those… those scholarly spectacles and a head full of big words!”

At this point, Miss Jane , a woman built like a sturdy oak tree and possessing a voice that could quiet a riot, let out a snort that could shame a foghorn. “Don't you be daft, Jack,” she boomed, her arms crossed. “Nurse Anderson here is the best blooming bone-setter this side of the county! And frankly, her advice has saved more lives than all the medical books this side of the Thames! Why, I recall the time…”