Jackpot Jack: A London Farce. Tatiana Bazhan

was as thick as pea soup. Here he was, ready to rail against the government, and they were about to reward him for a good deed he barely remembered doing. Life, as they say, is a funny old game.

      Chapter 7: A Geriatric Gallup

      Jack, was never the sharpest tool in the shed. He was as daft as a brush and as likely to misunderstand a situation as a cat is to enjoy a bath. But he had a good heart, did Jack, even if it was sometimes buried under layers of misguided opinions and a rather alarming sense of self-importance.

      Imagine, then, his delight when he received a whopping £500 for rescuing Mrs. Taylor's Whiskers from the clutches of the particularly lofty oak tree. Five hundred pounds! It felt like winning the lottery, a prize fit for a king! “Life,” he mused, a smug grin plastered across his face, “is a funny old sausage, isn't it?”

      Humming a jaunty tune, as out of tune as a bagpipe convention after a power cut, Jack turned the corner and nearly tripped over a sight that made his jaw drop. Dozens, scores, a veritable army of pensioners, were pounding the pavement, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, in what appeared to be a 10k marathon.

      “Good heavens!” he exclaimed, nearly swallowing his chewing gum. “They're off like a shot!”

      His face crumpled in horror. “Madness! Absolute madness!” he sputtered, his voice rising in alarm. “They're running headfirst into their own doom! Cardiac arrest, strokes, broken hips! I can see it all now! Their blood pressure's probably hitting the roof! They should be at home, tucked up with a nice cup of tea and “Antiques Roadshow”!” He envisioned ambulances screeching, paramedics frantically pumping chests, the whole scene a catastrophic symphony of wheezing and snapping bones. Yes, Jack was a walking, talking tragedy magnet that day.

      “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.

      Chapter 8: A Cast Of Doubt

      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 …”

      Jack’s eyes twinkling with amusement. “That's quite enough! Jack, let me assure you, I am indeed a doctor. And Nurse Anderson has learned more about practical medicine than most doctors learn in years of study. Her intuition is sharper than any textbook, her instincts as reliable as the tide.”

      “Really?” said Jack, looking between the two women. “So, you're both the same, but different? Like two shoes that are only good as a pair?”

      “Something like that, dear patient,” Miss Jane answered. “Now, are you ready to let a “mere nurse” with “years of practical experience” set your leg, or would you prefer to wait for the theoretical knowledge to arrive wearing spectacles?”

      Jack, faced with the choice between the known comfort of Nurse Anderson's sturdy presence and the vague promise of the scholarly doctor, wisely decided to hold his tongue. The plastering proceeded with a minimum of further interruptions, the only sound being the rhythmic swish of bandages and the triumphant snorts of Nurse Anderson, who kept muttering about “know-it-all nitwits” and “legs that need fixin’, not philosophising.” In the end, Jack was about to leave the plaster room in a cast, not just on his leg, but also on his inflated ego. A small price to pay, perhaps, for a lesson in humility, delivered with a healthy dose of British sarcasm and a liberal application of plaster of Paris.

      Chapter 9: The Rhyming Prescription

      “Right,” said Jack, the word escaping him like air from a punctured tyre. “So, a prescription, then, to get this blooming leg knitting itself back together faster than your Aunt Mildred knits tea cosies.” He paused, his brow furrowed like a freshly ploughed field. “And something for the pain, mind you. Don’t want to be lying awake all night, howling at the moon like a lovesick cat.”

      The doctor, Miss Jane, whose patience was clearly honed by years of dealing with patients like Jack, simply nodded, a faint smile playing on her lips. The nurse, whose face was usually as expressive as a brick wall, actually gave a barely perceptible twit.

      Now, Jack, despite his aforementioned intellectual limitations, was no fool – at least, not usually. He knew the legend, the terrifying myth, the very bane of the common man's existence: the doctor’s prescription. The scrawl, the hieroglyphics, the unholy mess that looked like a spider had crawled across the page after inking its feet.

      “But,” Jack began, his voice rising in pitch, “what about the writing? I mean, you lot write like chickens dipped in ink and chased across parchment!”

      “Don't worry, Jack,” the doctor said smoothly, handing him the slip of paper.

      Jack took it, squinting. He blinked. He squinted again. It was … legible. Impeccably, miraculously legible. And what's more, it rhymed!

      “For