Lying low

I want to talk to you today about lying. As it happens, I'm one of those too-honest-for-my-own-good people most of the time. A sample conversation might run thusly:

Laura's colleague: What do you think about our new customer-driven, future-proofed, best-in-class proposal?

Laura: I think you're talking bollocks. Try again. Less wanky.

Tact and subtlety may never have been my strong points, but honesty I'll rate up there as something that comes naturally to me.

However, I think we all appreciate the times when we need the little white lies. When someone's holding a dull-dull-dull Christening ceremony for their pet dog in Scarborough, or a massive clubbing night in Manchester on a Friday and you just don't want to go. But even I have enough social skills to realise you're not supposed to say, "I'm terribly sorry. I just don't want to go."

So you come up with some guff. Admit it, we all do it. "Oh, I'd have loved to have come to your niece's school's teddy bears' picnic in Darlington. Loved to! But unfortunately that weekend I'm visiting my parents / have theatre tickets / need to stay in for a delivery."

No harm done. I get out of the crapfest, and the friend remains a friend because of the little white lie. Our lives go on as normal.

Except the Plog. Oh, the Plog. Let's imagine I've been invited to a naming ceremony for a new pet goldfish in Northampton, and I've used the reasonable - if not terribly true - excuse that unfortunately that weekend I have to drive to Liverpool for a relative's birthday party. Fine. Except helpful friend has given me at least a month's notice of the naming ceremony, and by the time the day has rolled round, I've successfully deleted the ridiculous event from my mind.

And that weekend I write a Plog. And perhaps the Plog might say what a boring weekend I've had and I've not even left the flat. Or perhaps it might say that I went and did something that blatantly wasn't going to Liverpool.

The friend reads the Plog. The friend knows I have lied.

Oops.

Luckily, my friends are blessed with tact and subtlety, and have never (yet) mentioned it to me. Leaving me to pootle onwards with honesty.

I also realise I've just made a rod for my own back; if I ever turn down a friend's request again - even if it's with a true date clash - no-one will ever believe me. Oh well, perhaps I should just get used to saying, "I really don't want to go. Sorry." Then scowl and walk off. I will keep you posted.