Thursday, October 14, 2010


All day spent working on a poem, and it's rubbish. A few more drafts and it might be something, but the good ones (mine) do tend to fall out more or less all of a piece. Sitting at the computer means that my lower back is a bit rubbish, though I have been trying to follow the osteopath's advice to get up and walk about every so often. I am taking even less, if that were possible, interest in the sartorial element of my life and I therefore look like rubbish, or at any rate like someone who has clothed herself with random cast-offs from 1979 (thick-weave floral top) and 1989 (Puma polyester trousers). I haven't yet donned the Purples and think the moths have feasted on my cashmere top, which is very rubbish but I have never worked out what to do about things like that. The state of my soul is surprisingly rubbish, considering that things are not half bad, relatively speaking, and my VIPs (Mr. S and grown-up children) are well and generally thriving, and we have even sorted out our Christmas arrangements. But I have allowed certain elements from the dysfunctional wing, and a glass of toxic vintage from the cellars of bygone days to permeate my thin (and therefore rubbish) skin and sometimes I wish I could just wake up one day and not be me. Though, actually, me is pretty damn wonderful, when I come to think of it: generous to a fault, endlessly forgiving, insightful and, having been born on the Sabbath day, bonny, blithe and gay (in the old-fashioned sense of the word). It's just everyone else (not you, dear reader, obviously) who is rubbish. Which is, if you think about it, a pretty rubbish state of mind. And you would think, wouldn't you, that all those sessions with Shrink would have sorted me. But he was rubbish. And in my present state of mind (I'm seeing a new one and if she isn't rubbish now, you can bet your life she will be by the time I've finished with her) I'm not really prepared to entertain the thought that I will ever really get shot of all the rubbish.

But other than that, it's all sweet. And we're deep into the second series (boxed set) of Mad Men here, so there's a place to disappear to every evening: New York circa 1960, Madison Avenue, when to be almost any kind of woman was just beyond the shadow of a doubt - rubbish.

Post Script: forgot to put the bin out for collection today.


trousers said...

I'm not content with just putting


though I don't have the words to put anything other than




it is:


Reading the Signs said...

well, Trousers, three (o)s from you (or even one) is definitely not rubbish :)

Zhoen said...

There is that joke, about the little boy, always the optimist, offered by his cynical father a room full of crap. Boy wades in excitedly, saying "With this much manure, there has to be a pony in here somewhere!"

Reading the Signs said...

I love this, Zhoen!

Cusp said...

Ah Signsie, we all have times like this....well I do and you do so I presume it's not JUST us.

As I said t'other day on my FB Wall
'They're all b*st*rds'...and people kept asking me 'Who ?'..

Seemed simple to me: no one special...just that feeling that 'They' all are.

Must be in the weather

(o) to you and (*) and x

..and do you have a back thing to put behind you when you sit at the computer ? ..helps me

Fire Bird said...

heh, i know this place. feeling a bit rubbish meself despite (or maybe perversely because of...) L's 60th celebrations going on all over t'show. Quite enjoy the transmutation of rubbish into an adjective. Recycling one might say...

Reading the Signs said...

Of course it's simple Cusp - surely everyone knows about They!

A back thing? I take it you don't mean an ordinary cushion (which I have)? Say more please.

Firebird, I like that thought - yes - recycling is what it is. Kind of glad I didn't say bollocks.

Mim said...

Ice cream one day, rubbish the next.

And now?

Yours for poetry and up and down,

Reading the Signs said...

Mim - Now? You made me smile is what.

With you for poetry and up and down.