When writing…love dies


bottles old colourWhen someone doesn’t blog for ages, then reincarnates with an opening line apology of why – it really shits me. I don’t need to know. It doesn’t matter. You’re back now and that’s good enough for me.
So, my absenteeism from writing in general is not owing an apology. But I do need to tell you this back story to the return, as a writer or reader yourself it is relevant.
There are those in the Blog world that follow you. A few you depend on to back you. I’ve known a couple of great incognito writer egos along the way. They had my back, and, to be fair, I had theirs. I didn’t share the friendship outside of the Blog world and I didn’t want to. I didn’t need to know them casually. It was friendship built on writing and sharing the experience of being one in a pool of a million. Still, it gave me a kick to know a peer was on the ride.

So, when my most recent post did not even gauge off the deadbeat scale I was perplexed. Worse still my blog buddies all but gone. Fair enough, it’s been two years. I deserved it. Except for one. It didn’t feel right. He was not the sort of human to ignore you, just because, well you know….a couple of years….
So I went looking for him.chicago poker
His blog was still there, but not updated.
Odd in itself, for a courageous and dedicated writer.
It’s not uncommon for blogs and bloggers to drop off as life gets in the way of your craft . He was, after all, on the verge of making it big. He had published and was actually selling books, interviews, media – people were interested in him. It was a full time job. He was a ‘real’writer – who could blame him for leaving me behind ?
Still, it was odd. I didn’t think he would strike me off……I think he enjoyed hanging with me as much as I him. He was smart, you know, higher level arty stuff. A thinker. A creator.
I googled his name. Nothing.
I googled words that might connect with him…and then, there it was.
His tribute obituary.
The first whack was his name. Ben wasn’t his real name. Then the real thumper- he died less than a month after my last comment to him where he replied to me with the words…‘See what I mean? All that jazz about graciousness? It’s no jazz, and I thank you for it, P. And I’m awful curious where this will take me. Or where I’ll take it.”

Who fucking knew it would be his grave.

Ben, I’ve cried a river since I read the tribute and I don’t know if it’s for your time cut short or my time not being my own …sorry mate, just being honest with you, sure.


I love you. I hate you. I un-friend you.

Paula Mills - Writer

On Monday I decided to gently ease myself into a ‘cleansing life basket’ week. By Thursday, I am exhausted as my gentle cleansing morphed into murdering and extremist exterminating.

The house is immaculate – but still there is that irritating irk of unfinished business. For distraction I jump onto Face book to have a nose at what everyone else was up to.

The news feed rolls on –dreary pages of crap I have no interest in , I scroll, desperate to find something, someone – I wanted to read and ‘like’ let alone comment on. Nothing. It felt like the remote control stuck on some Z list TV channel. Why was that?

Bored I stopped on JO’s post. Ok, Jo is smiling at me and in her arms is an angry looking black cat. She tells me it’s her new cat. Jack. Jack the cat. Jo has a new…

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Call me Bitch. Call me Honey. But don’t call me Mummy.

imageYou’ve  seen them. The rain mac brigade. Matching blue plastic  hoods engulfing their faces with only a hairy nostril poking out.

They always stride in synch; up a mountain track or dog walking on the beach. I don’t suppose they wake and decide twinsey outfits is the fashion statement of the day. But hey, who thinks electric blue bin bags or yellow padded ski  jackets ( minus the snow) in his and her double purchases is OK ? It is kind of funny and to be fair, they are  probably so in synch with each other it’s goes unnoticed in their day to day. I don’t think they wake up and plan to be carbon copies. Even the rich and famous get in on it. Who can remember the leather clad Posh and Beck’s ? Even Wills and Kate, bless them, have been known to double up on the country, rabbit hopping, wax jacket ensemble. Still future King and Queen aside, it’s a little creepy don’t you think ?

Which is why, way before I pushed out a baby I promised myself faithfully to never, NEVER ever, lose the essence of me in the singular. I wrote a list on the subject to endorse it.

My promise to me –  to keep my hippy and happy with the occasional designer tag sense of style.  And definitely , absolutely, will NOT be the  parent in the pair who A ) digs outs matching baby and mummy outfits B) allows herself to be called Mummy…….by her husband.

And yet here I find myself three years into mummydom  responding without a thought to my husbands question of ” Have you seen my I phone  Mummy ? ”




So how in hell did this morph of me and him to permanent parent status happen ?

And worse still. I can barely admit it….. I call him Daddy.


Just reading this back is making me PUKE.

I might as well admit it. We do it in public too…..

To be fair to us, we have contained it to only when Miss 3 is in earshot….I think. But still, its super cheese with extra mozzarella. It’s a big NO, NO – yes ?

My own parents did it of course. my main reason for the opposition. To the point that somewhere in my teenage years when mum finally, in a fit of rage one day ( I think Dad left the milk out or something)  referred to our Daddy as “Terry”  It totally threw me for a nano second.

Who the hell was Terry ?

Oh right….  Dad’s real name ? Who knew……

So yeah, I find myself in a conundrum with this one. I just cannot help myself and it seems neither can he. I desperately need and want to return to the days of “darling” or “sweetheart” but alas, for now, in this re invented life of two becomes three there is a new norm.

Still it’s not a big deal I suppose. It could be a whole lot worse…… that reminds me. I have to go now and check some recent new wardrobe purchases. I’ve got a horrible feeling about something………