Pushing open the heavy pinewood door, Roger Jackson was unable to prevent the chill March wind carrying a small heap of dead elm leaves into the reception area as he struggled with an armful of case notes and the two pints of semi-skimmed milk;. the latter having been jammed under the car park gate, as usual, by the milkman on his pre-five AM milk round. Using his right foot in a neat, rear-kicking movement, he managed to thrust the door back into its frame and nodded to himself as he heard the latch drop. Roger slid the pile of notes onto the receptionists desk and, safely landing the milk cartons beside them, checked the practice answer phone for any overnight messages - there were none. Turning, he gathered the milk up again and made off into the kitchen, put the milk into the fridge and set about filling and boiling a kettle for tea. This completed, he returned to the reception, picked up his precious paperwork and entered his surgery.
Jackson had been the village general practitioner, in the sleepy little town of Throthorpe, for the past 27 years and was due to retire in six weeks time. He was a totally trustworthy and a loyal member of the parish community and a stalwart of the rural council. As treasurer, he was, in the mind of the village, a completely honest person. He read his work diary, dutifully completed by the receptionist on Friday night, and smiled as he saw his first patients name. Daniel Martens.
Jackson had been the village general practitioner, in the sleepy little town of Throthorpe, for the past 27 years and was due to retire in six weeks time. He was a totally trustworthy and a loyal member of the parish community and a stalwart of the rural council. As treasurer, he was, in the mind of the village, a completely honest person. He read his work diary, dutifully completed by the receptionist on Friday night, and smiled as he saw his first patients name. Daniel Martens.