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Sketch:(Sketch is a continuation from 'What the Stars Foretell')
Doctor: Good morning.
Mrs O: Oh, morning, doctor.
Doctor: How's the old arm this morning, Mrs Ikon?
Mrs Trepidatious: Oh, it's still hanging off at the shoulder.
Doctor: Good, well lees have a look at it, shall we? (he tries unsuccessfully to open his bag) Oh damn, damn, damn, damn… damn this wretched bag… oh the wretched, damn, bloody, little bag. It's the one thing I hate about being a doctor - it's this wretched bloody little bag!
(He smashes a chair over it and finally produces a revolver and shoots the lock off. It opens and is stuffed full of pound notes, Some of which spill out. He feels inside… eventually pulls out a stethoscope.)
Doctor: What's that doing here? (he throws it away)
(Cut to another doctor walking along a street. The stethoscope flies out of window and lands on him.)
Second Doctor: (brushing it off) Eurgggh!
(Cut back to the first doctor still rummaging in black bag. Eventually, he produces a pair of black kid gloves and a black handkerchief. He folds it and puts it on and points the gun at Mrs Trepidatious.)
Doctor: Hand over the money. (she goes to a sideboard opens the bottom drawer and gets out a money box which she gives to him) Come on, all of it! (she look scared; he jabs the gun at her; she goes over to a painting of a wall-safe on the wall and pushes it aside to reveal an identical wall-safe underneath. She opens it and a hand comes out holding a money box; she takes and gives it to the donor) Yes, that seems to be OK. Right! I'll just test your reflexes! (he opens his mac like a flasher; they scream and jump) Right, now then, everything seems to be OK, I'll see you next week. Keep collecting the pensions, and try not to spend too much on food. (he starts to go up)
Mrs Trepidatious: Thank you, doctor. (he disappears)
(Cut to a hospital ward. A man in bed, a chair with his clothes on it at fie foot of the bed. A doctor enters and goes right for the jacket and starts to feel in the pockets.)
Third Doctor: Morning, Mr Hemon … How are we today?
Henson: Not too bad, doctor.
Third Doctor: OK, take it easy … (he empties his wallet and puts it back) Expecting any postal orders this week?
Third Doctor: Right-o.
(A nurse comes and gets the loose change. The doctor goes to the next bed where there is a man entirely in traction.)
Third Doctor: Ah, Mr Rodgets, have you got your unemployment benefit please? Right. Well can you write me a cheque then… please?
(The patient writes him a cheque. He goes to the foot of the bed. There is a graph with a money symbol on it. He marks it down further.)
Third Doctor: Thank you very much. Soon have you down to nothing. Ah, Mr Millichope. (he smiles and leaves, passing a man with a saline drip full of coins; chink of money)