Following last year's tour de force, Janine returns to Ealing with some socialist feminist ranting poetry.
While identical in its pathology to general breast cancer, Big Breast Cancer has its own peculiar symptoms and foibles.
Big breast cancer:
Basically, biologically, clinically
Bog-standard breast cancer
But brings complications
Bad bastard cells
Build big clumps
Burrowed, buried, concealed
Beneath buxom cover
Before being caught
The NHS is not another country
Going to clinic's not a trip abroad
Its purpose is for treating not for hunting
No frontiers from reception to the ward
I have to cross the town not cross the oceans
A hospital's no tourist trap now, is it?
Rather than the needles, stitches, lotions
So many other sites I'd rather visit
Not smuggling drugs nor medicines nor pills in
Attila the Stockbroker writes in his Morning Star column:
After the French gigs on Wednesday and Thursday I came back to Cambridge yesterday for a trades council gig with a very brave and talented woman.
Here is the very good news from today's appointment with the surgeon at Homerton Hospital (pictured):
She's marked her again and the scars will preserve it
She's causing her pain 'cause she thinks she deserves it
She isn't a file on a case worker's shelf
She isn't self-harming, she's harming herself
Hyphen, inversion may make it sound neater
Straight like the burns from the bars on the heater
She's the subject, the object, the hurter, the hurt
The rejecter, the reject, the victim, the perp
OK, so the novelty has worn off now, and sitting round recovering is beginning to, erm, get on my tits.
The big long wound is healing very slowly. The other wound, under my armpit, has a stubborn sore patch next to it. Eight days after the surgery, it was Booby Tuesday again, so I had another walk up to the GP's surgery to have the dressings changed again, and get some advice on what to do.
"If a man ever raised his hand to me
I'd be gone."
Roars and applause from the studio audience
Put the shame-faced guest in her place
And the waves of clapping
Wash the blame
From him to her
Written on the occasion of the Labour Party's campaign day for the NHS.
It isn't my humour
That sees off my tumour
Or my banter and mocking derision
It isn't my laugh
But the medical staff
And their caring, their skills, their precision