Jackpot Jack: A London Farce. Tatiana Bazhan

Grimshaw listened patiently, a silent sentinel absorbing Jack's blather. He knew Thomas, the waiter in question, was saving every penny to support his sister. This Thomas was the most dedicated student in his class, working tirelessly to secure her future.

      Jack, oblivious to the simmering irony, prattled on, painting Thomas as a caricature of incompetence. Each cutting remark was a pinprick to Mr. Grimshaw's sense of justice, the silence growing heavier and more pregnant with unspoken truths.

      Finally, as Jack paused for breath, Mr. Grimshaw cleared his throat. “You know,” he said, his voice mild but carrying a certain weight, “you might be surprised. That “dim bulb,” as you so eloquently put it, is actually Thomas. He's a student of chemistry, the most intelligent and promising student in the University, the kind that comes once for our generation. I understand he's on the verge of a breakthrough. Besides, he is working here to pay for his sister's cancer treatment, so that she might live to see his new medicine at work.”

      The revelation hit Jack like a bucket of ice water. His face, previously flushed with self-importance, now paled to the colour of the café's perpetually milky tea. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. The biscuit, halfway to his lips, remained suspended in mid-air, a testament to his utter discomfiture. From a fountain of wisdom, Jack turned to a pool of shame!

      “Oh,” Jack stammered but could say no more.

      Mr. Grimshaw smiled, a gentle, knowing smile. “Perhaps,” he suggested, “another biscuit might help you digest that.”

      Chapter 13: The Chatty Crutch Vendor

      Jack paid and left the café hobbling about like a broken-winged pigeon. “Never again,” he’d muttered, nursing his leg, “shall I consider waiters to be devoid of ambition!” The irony wasn't lost on him, though the precise reason for his epiphany remained stubbornly elusive.

      Now, on his way to procure a crutch – a veritable lifeline for the temporarily incapacitated – Jack found his mind a blank canvas. Thinking, you see, was hard work, akin to wrestling a greased pig. He was tired of pondering, weary of considering, frankly, quite knackered from the sheer effort of existing. So, thoughts, like unruly sheep, scattered and fled, leaving behind only a vague sense of … well, nothing much at all.

      He shuffled along, the pavement his antagonist, his foot a traitor. The shop, a beacon of hope in a world suddenly hostile to his genius, loomed ahead. As he reached the threshold, a thought, unbidden and unwelcome, dared to intrude. Conversation. This was it! He'd have to speak to the shopkeeper. Delightful! An opportunity to bask in the warmth of human interaction! He imagined the vendor, a veritable fountain of eloquence, ready to launch into a tirade of crutch-related wisdom. They had to be good at talking, didn't they? How else would they flog their wares?

      However, a prickle of unease, like a tiny thistle snagging on his sock, reminded him of the potential pitfalls. Salesmen, after all, were notorious prevaricators, smooth-talking charlatans, masters of exaggeration. They would spin yarns as long as fishing lines, their mouths moving faster than a hummingbird’s wings. Jack, with his mind a veritable pudding, would have to tread carefully, lest he be swayed by their persuasive pronouncements.

      He took a deep breath, the air thick with the scent of dust and forgotten dreams. The bell above the door jingled merrily, announcing his arrival.

      “Morning!” a voice boomed, startling Jack half out of his already shaky boots. “Looking for something, aren’t you?”

      Jack blinked, momentarily speechless. “Uh … yes,” he stammered, feeling like a rabbit caught in the headlights. “A crutch, if you please.”

      The vendor, a portly fellow with a walrus moustache and eyes that twinkled like distant stars, chuckled. “A crutch, eh? Well, you've come to the right place! Crutches galore! Step right this way, and let's find you a weapon – I mean, a support – fit for a king!”

      Chapter 14: A Leg To Stand On… Or Not!

      Jack, poor Jack. It was only his imagination that ran wild. He pushed open the door, bells jingling with the enthusiasm of a choir of mischievous gremlins.

      Inside, the atmosphere was about as cheerful as a tax audit. The proprietor, a fellow who looked as if he'd been carved from granite and marinated in gloom, stood behind the counter like a gargoyle guarding a particularly unappealing cathedral. He was older than time itself and looked about as happy as a badger in a tumble dryer.

      The old man’s eyes, two beady black olives afloat in a sea of wrinkles, fixed upon Jack’s leg. He pointed a gnarled finger, like a wizened branch accusing the sky, towards a crutch leaning against the wall. Then, with the speed and grace of a snail stuck in treacle, he pointed at the price tag. And that, dear reader, was that. Not a “Good day to you, sir,” not a “Terrible weather we’re having,” not even a grunt of acknowledgement. Silence, deep and profound, filled the shop like a fog.

      “Erm, hello?” Jack ventured, feeling rather like a goldfish trying to strike up a conversation with a shark. “I, uh, need a crutch. This one here, I suppose?”

      The ancient proprietor merely blinked, his expression unchanging, a mask of utter indifference. He shuffled off to the till, moving with the alacrity of a tectonic plate, leaving Jack to ponder his options.

      Jack was practically bursting with indignation. He imagined himself writing a scathing review in the shop's complaint book, detailing the appalling service, the lack of basic human decency. He paused, picturing himself hobbling to the next crutch shop, which was practically on the moon. Defeated, he sighed.

      “How much is it then?” Jack mumbled, extracting his wallet.

      The man pointed at the price tag again, a sum that felt suspiciously close to highway robbery. Jack paid, feeling as though he'd been personally insulted by the entire crutch-selling profession. He grabbed the crutch and limped out, the shop door slamming shut behind him with a final, dismissive thud. He felt like a wet cat, thoroughly and utterly humiliated. He was, to put it mildly, not a happy camper. The irony, of course, was that he now had a leg to stand on, but he felt as though he’d lost something far more valuable: his faith in the basic goodness of crutch shop owners, a faith that, admittedly, was never particularly robust to begin with.

      Chapter 15: The Purloined Parsnip

      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?”

      Jack turned to see Mrs. Higgins, a woman whose bosom preceded her into every room like a herald announcing