By Rachel Halliwell
The average person tells four lies a day, according to a new survey. Well, if my experiences of the past week are anything to go by, there's nothing average about me. I lie to my husband, parents and children regularly. I am also economical with the truth where friends and colleagues are concerned - and I lie to myself. For seven days I have tried to speak only the truth.
It has made me realise just what an accomplished liar I really am...
My editor calls with a challenge: it seems we all tell lies every day, perhaps to avoid hurting someone's feelings or to get out of a spot of bother. Now she wants me, for a week, to be a paragon of truthfulness. Before I go she asks whether I've finished an article I should have given her three days ago.
'My computer's broken,' I explain. 'A man's coming to fix it this afternoon. I'll get it over to you by the morning. I've got to go; someone's at the door.' Phew! There are my four lies for the day out of my system in one go. The rest of today should be a breeze. And it is, until the kids get home and Merrily, my ten-year-old, eavesdrops on a phone call between my sister and I as I tell her what I'm doing.
'It'll be fine,' I say, when she points out that my three daughters could ask me all sorts of uncomfortable questions. 'I just won't tell them what I'm doing.' That's when I hear the upstairs phone click, followed by the sound of Merrily thundering down the stairs.
'Mum can't lie to us... whatever we ask her she's got to tell the truth,' she shrieks at her sisters. Next minute she's standing in front of me, hands on hips, demanding to know how old I was when I lost my virginity. 'How do you even know what virginity means?' I ask.
'School,' she says. 'So how old?' I tell her it's none of her business (true). And I give the same reply when she asks how many times I've 'done it' and whether her father really is the only boy I've ever kissed. She slopes off in a mood, while I congratulate myself for avoiding a tricky situation. This is going to be a doddle.
TUESDAY
My husband, Carl, didn't get home until late last night, so by the time he sees the children, Merrily has had several hours to scheme. She beams at him as he joins us at the breakfast table. 'Dad, why don't you ask Mum whether she cleaned the car herself last week,' she says sweetly. 'Or if she paid somebody to do it while you were at work?'
I choke on my tea. I haven't got round to telling Carl about my assignment yet. He looks confused.
'And you should ask her about those scratches down the side of the car again, in case she's remembered how they got there.' My heart sinks as Merrily throws me a smug smile before going in for the kill.
'Nice dress, Mum. Is it new?' I can't believe my own daughter has incriminated me so cheerfully.
Now my husband wants some answers, and unfortunately I'm allowed to give only honest ones.
So I come clean about the valet, admit I scratched the car on a hedge and confess the dress I'm wearing is new.
We haven't finished breakfast, yet my husband is already starting the day firmly ensconced on the moral high ground. That's where I usually sit - and I don't like this at all.
'I'll have some questions for you when I get home tonight,' says Carl as he leaves for work.
[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="469" caption="Truthful: Rachel with daughter Bridie and husband Carl"]
[/caption]
'Can't wait,' I lie sarcastically. Oops. The good news is my husband works far too hard to have the time to think up tricky questions for me to answer. The bad news is that Merrily has slipped a long list of them into his pocket. Right now I've got a more pressing matter to deal with. Bronte, my 14-year-old, wants highlights. At the moment her hair is a beautiful shade of strawberry blonde, but she wants to go lighter.
'You're too young, darling,' I say. 'Wait a couple more years.' Bronte asks me how old I was when I started dyeing my own hair. My instinct is to lie - to claim I was 18 so that anything less seems like a compromise.
But I can't. Instead, I groan as I recall how, at 14, I took myself off to the hairdressers and returned home with a bleached blonde crop. My own shenanigans suddenly make a few strands of tint seem pretty tame. 'I was your age,' I sigh. 'If you promise to have just highlights, I'll book you in.'
My husband calls later that afternoon. 'That letter you said was junk mail, the one you threw in the bin the other day - what was it really?' It was either a parking ticket or a credit card bill, which I had to fish out of the bin again as soon as he left the house. I can't remember which, so in all honesty I tell him I don't know.
Then he asks if, as it's Tuesday, I'll be making my home-made lasagne for supper as usual tonight. 'I don't actually make it,' I tell him quietly. 'I get it from Ocado.' 'Why would you lie about that?' asks Carl, sounding perturbed. 'Because I think it makes me look good,' is my shamefully honest reply.
WEDNESDAY
My friend calls in tears. She's had a bust up with her husband and wants to vent her spleen. 'He's a pig,' she wails. 'He's gone too far this time: I'm going to get a divorce.' I'm worried, not for my friend's marriage, but for our relationship if this conversation continues. You see, she's a huge drama queen and chances are this latest crisis is over something minor.
Now, normally I wouldn't let the triviality of her husband's misdemeanour get in the way of a bit of man-bashing. Quite the opposite: I'd agree with her that she'd married an absolute beast. But today I've got to be honest with my friend, which could end up with her more cross with me than at him.
'What did he do then?' I ask nervously. It turns out he told her that she looked awful in the dress she'd bought for their daughter's christening. 'I asked him if it made me look fat, and he said yes,' she sobs down the phone. 'And he agreed with me when I said I could do with losing a couple of pounds.
'When I got upset, he said I shouldn't ask for his opinion if I didn't want the truth. Tell me, honestly, do you think I'm over-reacting?'
I took a deep breath and said yes, I did think she was over-reacting and that no divorce judge would agree to end her marriage on such flimsy grounds. I point out that she's already told me she was taking the dress in question back to the shop because it was unflattering, and that they were both right - she could do with losing a few pounds.
We haven't spoken since.
THURSDAY
It's my day off. I've promised my youngest Bridie, three next month, that we'll spend the morning at the playground, but it's raining and I can't face getting wet. 'It's all right, Mummy,' she smiles. 'We can just put our hoods up.' I'm about to say that my friend the park-keeper has just called to tell me that he's had to lock the gates because of the bad weather, but that would be fibbing. Instead, I hunt out my wellies and trudge to the car.
[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="233" caption="Just a white lie: Rachel, with daughter Merrily, found her task challenging"]
[/caption]
And I'm glad I did. We have a lovely time, splashing in puddles, with the playground all to ourselves. But 90minutes later I've had enough and I try to explain to my daughter that it's time to leave. As the mother of any toddler will tell you, no amount of time at the swings is enough. Which is where my special relationship with the imaginary parkkeeper often comes in handy.
Normally I just say that I can see him coming with his keys to shut the park, Bridie grudgingly accepts it, and we quietly go home. Today, that's not an option. I have to tell an almost three-year-old the truth: that we have to leave because I'm cold and hungry and I've got a supermarket delivery due in ten minutes.
Bridie throws herself onto the grass sobbing. I have to carry her, kicking and screaming, back to the car. As far as she's concerned, the last hour and a half didn't happen, and she's been landed with the world's worst mother. She's still sulking when my own mother phones to talk me through the latest round in her fight against the slugs that are hell-bent on destroying the lettuces at her allotment.
Ten minutes into the conversation, I'm losing the will to live. 'I'll have to go, Mum, there's someone coming up the drive with a parcel,' I tell her. Then I remember that lying to get off the phone, however desperate the circumstances, is banned.
'My mistake,' I say quickly. 'They must be going next door. Tell me more about the slugs. I'm really interested.' It strikes me as worrying that I've just tried to put one lie right by telling another. And then told a third because I feel guilty about the first. This must be what they mean when people talk about weaving tangled webs of deceit.
I begin to wonder if I might have a problem, so I look up 'compulsive liar' on the net. This throws up articles about bigamists and people who have impersonated doctors and lawyers, and makes me feel much better. My lies seem very ordinary by comparison. And when I ask one of my friends if she tells similar fibs she says no, very unconvincingly.
FRIDAY
I haven't been to the gym for two months, and my clothes are feeling tight, so I book myself in for a review. 'You don't need to weigh me, I did it myself this morning,' I tell my trainer. 'I've gained a pound.' Which is rather less than the truth. 'And the rest,' he snorts, telling me to get on the scales. Maybe he's trying this honesty thing, too.
It turns out I'm three pounds heavier than I'm claiming to be. He suggests my scales must be broken, but I know they're not. 'I've found that if I place them in a spot on the bathroom floor, and lean backwards when I stand on them, they make it look as if I weigh less,' I admit.
My trainer points out that by doing that I'm only lying to myself, so what's the point? 'And do you still think you might have a thyroid problem?' he asks. I'm obliged to confess I never did - it was just a cover for the fact that I constantly claim to eat like a sparrow, when really my only bird-like quality is my penchant for bread and cake.
I can't wait for this week to end.
SATURDAY
I take Bridie back to the park. It's a glorious day and I vow to stay for as long as she wants to this time. Soon after we arrive an ice-cream van starts playing music, but Bridie doesn't react. That's because the last time she heard it I didn't have any money on me, so I told her the ice-cream man plays music to tell children he's run out.
'The ice-cream's all gone,' she says forlornly, and I feel really mean. 'No, it's not,' I tell her. 'Let's go and buy you one.' Thankfully, toddlers tend to live in the moment and this turn of events means she's getting ice-cream, so she doesn't question it.
That evening I suggest we go out for tea to our local Indian restaurant. Are you tired?' my husband asks. I have to admit that I'm fine; I just can't be bothered to cook. As we leave, a friend of a friend is waiting to collect his take-away. I go to chat to him while Carl pays the bill.
[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="233" caption="Speaking her mind: Rachel is glad the week of being truthful is over"]
[/caption]
We're still talking when Carl appears with the children, clearly expecting an introduction. 'This is so embarrassing,' I say. 'I don't know your name.' Back in the car, my husband's in a mood. He accuses me of flirting, and says I made a big thing of not knowing this man's name to cover for the fact that I fancied him.
The children remind me that I can't lie and snigger as I admit that their father is absolutely right. 'You're so perceptive, darling,' I say soothingly, hoping I can flatter my way out of trouble. On the way home, we drop the older girls off at their friends' houses for sleep-overs before getting the little one off to bed.
Carl says he wants an early night. 'Hope you haven't got a headache?' he grins. 'Remember, you're not allowed to lie.'
SUNDAY
The final day of my challenge dawns and I'm relieved it's nearly over. Merrily realises time is running out, and bombards me with things she wants to challenge - which consists mostly of the things I say to her all the time. 'Do my ears really twitch when I lie?' she asks. No.
'Will sitting too close to the TV make my eyes go square?' No. 'Would I really get arrested if a policeman heard me swear?' Probably not. 'And if I don't dry my hair properly before I go to bed will I really go bald?' I very much doubt it.
I go to bed that night exposed as a double-crossing swindler. But despite being such a terrible mother, there's a gift on my pillow. It's a card that Merrily must have made for me earlier, and is a jumbled mass of glitter, glue, feathers and bits of fluff. I creep into her room and give her a kiss. 'Do you like your card?' she murmurs, half-asleep.
'I love it, darling,' I whisper in her ear. Thank goodness the week is over.
Could YOU survive only telling the truth to your children, your partner and your boss? As a study reveals we tell a whopping four lies a day, we challenged one mother to be completely honest for a whole week. So who did scratch the family car - and how much was that dress?
Journalist Rachel Halliwell took a rather difficult test by not lying for a whole week
The average person tells four lies a day, according to a new survey. Well, if my experiences of the past week are anything to go by, there's nothing average about me. I lie to my husband, parents and children regularly. I am also economical with the truth where friends and colleagues are concerned - and I lie to myself. For seven days I have tried to speak only the truth.
It has made me realise just what an accomplished liar I really am...
MONDAY
My editor calls with a challenge: it seems we all tell lies every day, perhaps to avoid hurting someone's feelings or to get out of a spot of bother. Now she wants me, for a week, to be a paragon of truthfulness. Before I go she asks whether I've finished an article I should have given her three days ago.
'My computer's broken,' I explain. 'A man's coming to fix it this afternoon. I'll get it over to you by the morning. I've got to go; someone's at the door.' Phew! There are my four lies for the day out of my system in one go. The rest of today should be a breeze. And it is, until the kids get home and Merrily, my ten-year-old, eavesdrops on a phone call between my sister and I as I tell her what I'm doing.
'It'll be fine,' I say, when she points out that my three daughters could ask me all sorts of uncomfortable questions. 'I just won't tell them what I'm doing.' That's when I hear the upstairs phone click, followed by the sound of Merrily thundering down the stairs.
'Mum can't lie to us... whatever we ask her she's got to tell the truth,' she shrieks at her sisters. Next minute she's standing in front of me, hands on hips, demanding to know how old I was when I lost my virginity. 'How do you even know what virginity means?' I ask.
'School,' she says. 'So how old?' I tell her it's none of her business (true). And I give the same reply when she asks how many times I've 'done it' and whether her father really is the only boy I've ever kissed. She slopes off in a mood, while I congratulate myself for avoiding a tricky situation. This is going to be a doddle.
TUESDAY
My husband, Carl, didn't get home until late last night, so by the time he sees the children, Merrily has had several hours to scheme. She beams at him as he joins us at the breakfast table. 'Dad, why don't you ask Mum whether she cleaned the car herself last week,' she says sweetly. 'Or if she paid somebody to do it while you were at work?'
I choke on my tea. I haven't got round to telling Carl about my assignment yet. He looks confused.
'And you should ask her about those scratches down the side of the car again, in case she's remembered how they got there.' My heart sinks as Merrily throws me a smug smile before going in for the kill.
'Nice dress, Mum. Is it new?' I can't believe my own daughter has incriminated me so cheerfully.
Now my husband wants some answers, and unfortunately I'm allowed to give only honest ones.
So I come clean about the valet, admit I scratched the car on a hedge and confess the dress I'm wearing is new.
We haven't finished breakfast, yet my husband is already starting the day firmly ensconced on the moral high ground. That's where I usually sit - and I don't like this at all.
'I'll have some questions for you when I get home tonight,' says Carl as he leaves for work.
[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="469" caption="Truthful: Rachel with daughter Bridie and husband Carl"]
[/caption]'Can't wait,' I lie sarcastically. Oops. The good news is my husband works far too hard to have the time to think up tricky questions for me to answer. The bad news is that Merrily has slipped a long list of them into his pocket. Right now I've got a more pressing matter to deal with. Bronte, my 14-year-old, wants highlights. At the moment her hair is a beautiful shade of strawberry blonde, but she wants to go lighter.
'You're too young, darling,' I say. 'Wait a couple more years.' Bronte asks me how old I was when I started dyeing my own hair. My instinct is to lie - to claim I was 18 so that anything less seems like a compromise.
But I can't. Instead, I groan as I recall how, at 14, I took myself off to the hairdressers and returned home with a bleached blonde crop. My own shenanigans suddenly make a few strands of tint seem pretty tame. 'I was your age,' I sigh. 'If you promise to have just highlights, I'll book you in.'
My husband calls later that afternoon. 'That letter you said was junk mail, the one you threw in the bin the other day - what was it really?' It was either a parking ticket or a credit card bill, which I had to fish out of the bin again as soon as he left the house. I can't remember which, so in all honesty I tell him I don't know.
Then he asks if, as it's Tuesday, I'll be making my home-made lasagne for supper as usual tonight. 'I don't actually make it,' I tell him quietly. 'I get it from Ocado.' 'Why would you lie about that?' asks Carl, sounding perturbed. 'Because I think it makes me look good,' is my shamefully honest reply.
WEDNESDAY
My friend calls in tears. She's had a bust up with her husband and wants to vent her spleen. 'He's a pig,' she wails. 'He's gone too far this time: I'm going to get a divorce.' I'm worried, not for my friend's marriage, but for our relationship if this conversation continues. You see, she's a huge drama queen and chances are this latest crisis is over something minor.
Now, normally I wouldn't let the triviality of her husband's misdemeanour get in the way of a bit of man-bashing. Quite the opposite: I'd agree with her that she'd married an absolute beast. But today I've got to be honest with my friend, which could end up with her more cross with me than at him.
'What did he do then?' I ask nervously. It turns out he told her that she looked awful in the dress she'd bought for their daughter's christening. 'I asked him if it made me look fat, and he said yes,' she sobs down the phone. 'And he agreed with me when I said I could do with losing a couple of pounds.
'When I got upset, he said I shouldn't ask for his opinion if I didn't want the truth. Tell me, honestly, do you think I'm over-reacting?'
I took a deep breath and said yes, I did think she was over-reacting and that no divorce judge would agree to end her marriage on such flimsy grounds. I point out that she's already told me she was taking the dress in question back to the shop because it was unflattering, and that they were both right - she could do with losing a few pounds.
We haven't spoken since.
THURSDAY
It's my day off. I've promised my youngest Bridie, three next month, that we'll spend the morning at the playground, but it's raining and I can't face getting wet. 'It's all right, Mummy,' she smiles. 'We can just put our hoods up.' I'm about to say that my friend the park-keeper has just called to tell me that he's had to lock the gates because of the bad weather, but that would be fibbing. Instead, I hunt out my wellies and trudge to the car.
[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="233" caption="Just a white lie: Rachel, with daughter Merrily, found her task challenging"]
[/caption]And I'm glad I did. We have a lovely time, splashing in puddles, with the playground all to ourselves. But 90minutes later I've had enough and I try to explain to my daughter that it's time to leave. As the mother of any toddler will tell you, no amount of time at the swings is enough. Which is where my special relationship with the imaginary parkkeeper often comes in handy.
Normally I just say that I can see him coming with his keys to shut the park, Bridie grudgingly accepts it, and we quietly go home. Today, that's not an option. I have to tell an almost three-year-old the truth: that we have to leave because I'm cold and hungry and I've got a supermarket delivery due in ten minutes.
Bridie throws herself onto the grass sobbing. I have to carry her, kicking and screaming, back to the car. As far as she's concerned, the last hour and a half didn't happen, and she's been landed with the world's worst mother. She's still sulking when my own mother phones to talk me through the latest round in her fight against the slugs that are hell-bent on destroying the lettuces at her allotment.
Ten minutes into the conversation, I'm losing the will to live. 'I'll have to go, Mum, there's someone coming up the drive with a parcel,' I tell her. Then I remember that lying to get off the phone, however desperate the circumstances, is banned.
'My mistake,' I say quickly. 'They must be going next door. Tell me more about the slugs. I'm really interested.' It strikes me as worrying that I've just tried to put one lie right by telling another. And then told a third because I feel guilty about the first. This must be what they mean when people talk about weaving tangled webs of deceit.
I begin to wonder if I might have a problem, so I look up 'compulsive liar' on the net. This throws up articles about bigamists and people who have impersonated doctors and lawyers, and makes me feel much better. My lies seem very ordinary by comparison. And when I ask one of my friends if she tells similar fibs she says no, very unconvincingly.
FRIDAY
I haven't been to the gym for two months, and my clothes are feeling tight, so I book myself in for a review. 'You don't need to weigh me, I did it myself this morning,' I tell my trainer. 'I've gained a pound.' Which is rather less than the truth. 'And the rest,' he snorts, telling me to get on the scales. Maybe he's trying this honesty thing, too.
It turns out I'm three pounds heavier than I'm claiming to be. He suggests my scales must be broken, but I know they're not. 'I've found that if I place them in a spot on the bathroom floor, and lean backwards when I stand on them, they make it look as if I weigh less,' I admit.
My trainer points out that by doing that I'm only lying to myself, so what's the point? 'And do you still think you might have a thyroid problem?' he asks. I'm obliged to confess I never did - it was just a cover for the fact that I constantly claim to eat like a sparrow, when really my only bird-like quality is my penchant for bread and cake.
I can't wait for this week to end.
SATURDAY
I take Bridie back to the park. It's a glorious day and I vow to stay for as long as she wants to this time. Soon after we arrive an ice-cream van starts playing music, but Bridie doesn't react. That's because the last time she heard it I didn't have any money on me, so I told her the ice-cream man plays music to tell children he's run out.
'The ice-cream's all gone,' she says forlornly, and I feel really mean. 'No, it's not,' I tell her. 'Let's go and buy you one.' Thankfully, toddlers tend to live in the moment and this turn of events means she's getting ice-cream, so she doesn't question it.
That evening I suggest we go out for tea to our local Indian restaurant. Are you tired?' my husband asks. I have to admit that I'm fine; I just can't be bothered to cook. As we leave, a friend of a friend is waiting to collect his take-away. I go to chat to him while Carl pays the bill.
[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="233" caption="Speaking her mind: Rachel is glad the week of being truthful is over"]
[/caption]We're still talking when Carl appears with the children, clearly expecting an introduction. 'This is so embarrassing,' I say. 'I don't know your name.' Back in the car, my husband's in a mood. He accuses me of flirting, and says I made a big thing of not knowing this man's name to cover for the fact that I fancied him.
The children remind me that I can't lie and snigger as I admit that their father is absolutely right. 'You're so perceptive, darling,' I say soothingly, hoping I can flatter my way out of trouble. On the way home, we drop the older girls off at their friends' houses for sleep-overs before getting the little one off to bed.
Carl says he wants an early night. 'Hope you haven't got a headache?' he grins. 'Remember, you're not allowed to lie.'
SUNDAY
The final day of my challenge dawns and I'm relieved it's nearly over. Merrily realises time is running out, and bombards me with things she wants to challenge - which consists mostly of the things I say to her all the time. 'Do my ears really twitch when I lie?' she asks. No.
'Will sitting too close to the TV make my eyes go square?' No. 'Would I really get arrested if a policeman heard me swear?' Probably not. 'And if I don't dry my hair properly before I go to bed will I really go bald?' I very much doubt it.
I go to bed that night exposed as a double-crossing swindler. But despite being such a terrible mother, there's a gift on my pillow. It's a card that Merrily must have made for me earlier, and is a jumbled mass of glitter, glue, feathers and bits of fluff. I creep into her room and give her a kiss. 'Do you like your card?' she murmurs, half-asleep.
'I love it, darling,' I whisper in her ear. Thank goodness the week is over.
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