(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
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.
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: Righto.
(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
(The patient writes him a check. He goes to the foot of the
bed. There is a graph with a money symbol on it. He marks it down
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)