A Little White Truth

Little is known about the origin of lying. Some would have it that it began with the second living entity being told it had been created but the first living entity. Others will tell you lying was created as a response to the age-old question: ‘Does my bum look big in this?’

It is as easy to find a liar as it is to lie for there are three tell-tale signs. One - the longer the lies go on, the larger the person’s nose becomes. Two - pay close attention to the mouth; when a lie is being told, one can see the lips moving. Three - the liar will undoubtedly have an X chromosome.

Finally, the only way to deal with a liar is to pour salt on their tongue, remove their shoelaces and bury them - the laces not the person - with three cloves of garlic and a pint of lager. Either that or chant, ‘Liar! Liar! Pants on fire!’ (Disclaimer: it should be pointed out that, if the truthbender’s trousers are not actually aflame, this second method could itself be construed as a lie.)

Of course, some lies are helpful, beautiful and perhaps necessary. ‘You’re baby’s so cute.’ ‘Thank you, it’s a lovely gift.’ ‘And they all lived happily ever after.’

Which leads me to my pointless point: as writers, do we not all craft lies to entertain others? (Please say yes, because if some of the things I’ve read here are real, this world is more scary than I thought.)

And so I ask: has anything I’ve written here been real? And if not, has my avoidance of the truth dismayed or entertained? Do you mistrust me? Should you trust me? I am, after all, only human.

(Or am I? Maybe that was another lie.)