Why I can’t lie

I think I might be programmed not to lie. Every time I’ve tried, I’ve come unstuck. For example, took my son to see a 12 years-and-over film when he was 10. Yes, I know, bad, bad mother but he really wanted to go and he was tall for his age so – before we reached the kiosk to buy the tickets, I’m standing there practicing giving his brand new date of birth. The woman selling the tickets says – how old is he? Ten I say. My daughter kicked me. I mean 12, I blurt. I think the ticket seller took pity on my kids for having such a hopeless mother and she let us in.

Today, I took my daughter to a wholesale warehouse that sells silk flowers and everything a florist or interior designer would need—ever. I had to borrow my neighbor’s card to get in because I don’t have one. Fearing I’d have to sign in – I spent twenty minutes practicing her signature. Of course, the moment I started to sign in the warehouse, my writing morphed into something completely different. A bit like a five year olds. Luckily they didn’t check it against the card. But all the way round the store, my daughter teased me saying they’d make me arrange flowers before they let me leave. We reach the checkout – confirm your name, says the cashier. Oh darn it, not one of my finer moments.

You’d think when I spend most of my time making up stories, I wouldn’t have such an issue telling fibs in real life but I do. I blame my mother. In fact, I blame her for everything. None of it’s my fault. Ooh, maybe I can tell fibs.