Telling the Truth

Truth was, and always has been, very important to me. In fact, I find it almost impossible to lie; I don’t really understand how other people manage to do so. On the rare occasions that I am untruthful, I feel as though it is glaringly obvious to those around me that I am lying. I can however tell a form of the truth, though it is far from subtle. Let me illustrate with an example of typical morning from my teenage years.

Firstly, Mum would bring me a cup of tea and inform me that it was time to get up. She would invariably tell me not to let my tea go cold. Later, she would return to make sure I had not gone back to sleep. At times, extreme measures such as the deployment of a wet flannel or the flinging off of my duvet cover would be needed. I must have been a complete nightmare in the mornings, because even these methods would fail at times. Sometimes, however, all that was required was for Mum to shout upstairs a short while after having left the tea.

“J, are you up yet?”

Thump!

“Yes Mum.”

The thump which punctuated this exchange would be the sound of me getting out of my cabin bed. The bed was a few feet from the ground and I used to exit by means of sliding off the edge.

My Mum doubtless knew that this is what was happening; I don’t think I was under any illusion that I was fooling her. The important thing, for me at least, was that I was not lying. Many people would probably have shouted a cheery ‘yes’ under these circumstances and then quietly got out of bed. Me, I did not like the idea of telling an outright lie, hence this very particular form of truth.

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