Stuff about the city where I (used to) live and (still) work!
Janine Booth, Matt Abbott, Mark Coverdale and Fran Isherwood entertaining the troops - well, pickets - during the latest strike action for a living wage and decent workiing conditions at Hackney Picturehouse cinema.
Two weeks in, I have reached half time in my radiotherapy. I almost expected someone to run in with a tray of quaretered oranges to deliver a pep talk. But no such luck.
I have to say, oddly enough, that I am rather enjoying it. I make a daily trip on a bus that takes less than an hour to a lovely hospital where I lie down on a comfortable bed while supportive, good-humoured and non-judgemental staff give me a totally painless, non-invasive, ten-minute treatment. And despite cautions from others who have been treated elsewhere, I don't even have to sit around waiting. They pretty much treat me as soon as I get there.
There is a series of rooms, each with a Linear Accelerator (Linac) machine (pictured), and in Bart's they are named after planets. At the beginning of htis week, I was in Saturn; for the last couple of days I have been in Venus, which has filled my head with a Banarama song. You may be relieved to know that there is not a Uranus, not even for colorectal cancer patients.
I proper hate those Tube strikers
they've well messed up my day
I'm late for tea at City Hall
I walked most of the way
And then found out the CEO
had nicked my parking bay
On every other day I don't
give them a second thought
They work to run the railway safely?
Nothing of the sort!
I know they're lazy bastards 'cos
I saw the news report
And so to bed
The diarist said
Or rather, the diarist penned
Deeds fine and sordid
Have been recorded
The day has reached its end
Blood sprayed across the ticket hall floor
Capes caught and torn in moving rails
Horns and scales and devils’ tails
Make-up smudged some hours before
Biting, fighting, broken jaw
Cuts and slashes, tears and gashes
Blades and bottles, glints and flashes
Of steel, red handprint on the door
Claws and punches, noses broken
Howls and screams and curses spoken
Rhythm tapped out by the
flats of the wheels of the
train with its steel drum re-
frain, past allotments and
rubbish heaps, rubble and
people in trouble, past
ivyed embankments where
knotweed grips coke cans, di-
gests the degradables,
strangles the cables and
chews up elastic bands,
spits out the plastic bags