She wouldn't let it lie ...

Though I might tell many a story (Did you know that Miss Edna Gussett, inventor of the elasticated haversack was born in my house in 1862?) I cannot tell lies. By lie, I mean something opposite to the truth and not something that was clearly untrue from the get-go. (Are you following this?) For such inventions, as Elvis once said to me, are just the edge of reality. (Don't read too much into his lyrics; he was having a bad day.)

On the rare occasions I find it politic to lie, I blush, stammer and develop a fixed expression. My mouth twitches, too, which is a bit of a giveaway. (As if all the other numerous tics weren't.) The silver lining in this cloud is that I cannot, therefore, be a psychopath, which is a relief as I'd always wondered ...

But it's also why I've never beaten Daniel Craig at Baccarat. Sigh.

Is there a difference between a fib and a lie? Confused, I asked The Pope. One of his minions emailed back: A fib is a lie with good intentions; a lie is a lie with bad intentions. See, even The Church doesn't get too hung up on honesty these days.

Nietzsche was very big on truth - and if that's not enough to make you go and tell the biggest porkies, then I don't know what is - but even he concluded What in us really wants Truth? How much more fun to believe in the Elasticated Haversack! (I said that last bit, not Nietzsche, in case you were wondering.)

Mark Twain - never a man short of pithy quotations, and here's another one - went for the cliched blah-blah-blah is the best blah-blah-blah approach: If you tell the truth then you don't have to remember anything. And Abraham Lincoln, equally moral: No man has a good enough memory to make a successful liar.

I bet they were a barrel of laughs. "Does my bum look big in this, Abe?" "Yes, it looks enormous. The fabric highlights the cellulite rippling across your buttocks. But let's face it, your bum would look big in anything."

I'm not going to tell you what Mark said - except that truthfulness shows a distinct lack of imagination.

Oddly, when I'm meant to blush (Are you still following this?) I don't. Not at nudity, rudity or prudery. Hmm, I might have to investigate this psychopath thing further ...

For example, most people who found themselves accidentally tied up by the gasman (by candlelight, with drawn curtains - before lunch - wearing a nightdress, coat and padded boots) might find this a highly embarrassing position to be in. In such circumstances, a certain degree of flushing, blushing, and reddening is to be expected, no? You'd be covered in embarrassment and very little else - apart from, obviously, the nightdress, coat and padded boots.

I'll leave you to work out the parts of this post which are true and the parts which are false.

Stealing shamelessly from Hilary Mantel - A rough guide: anything that seems particularly unlikely is probably true.

Telling Stories

Before I begin this post, I'd like to make it clear that this not a photograph of Gordon Brown throwing a tangerine during a fit of pique. Most definitely not.

However, that story - and the way it was repeated by the media - did make me chuckle. It's so easy to get caught up in a flight of fancy (also known as a Big Fat Fib), make up some silly story - purely for self-amusement, you understand - and then a week or so later have it repeated back to you as fact.

I went to a high school on top of a hill in Yorkshire. There are many hills in Yorkshire, but I'd prefer to be vague about this particular hill to avoid any recriminations. The Head Teacher was very proud of his All Weather Playing Pitch, an enormous, brown, gritty expanse on which we could play various sports against other High Schools - football, hockey, netball - and lose.

The All Weather Playing Pitch was almost at the top of the hill, but at the very top of the hill was a telecommunications tower studded with satellite dishes, aerials, sharp metal things, wires and the like. It could be seen for miles around.

This was the period of the Cold War. Reagan had his quivering finger over the Red Button and was just waiting for Nancy's astrologer to divine a propitious date to bomb the shit out of Russia - or so we all thought.

On a dull day in February, I happened to mention en passant to a friend that there was a nuclear fallout shelter under the All Weather Playing Pitch, but that in the event of a nuclear strike - and the telecommunications tower would surely attract a nuclear strike? - only teachers would be allowed in. The pupils could all go hang - or something more atomic.

Gosh.

Only an hour later, during a lesson on Tudor law-making, Duncan Jacques stood up and shouted at Mrs Jenkins, "I don't think it's at all fair that we won't be allowed in the nuclear fallout shelter!"

Of course, Mrs Jenkins didn't have a clue what he was talking about. In fact, none of the teachers who were asked to defend this indefensible position (during Lat. Hist. Geog. Lit. Arith. Fr.) knew what the pupils were talking about. But the more they denied any knowledge of the Top Secret Bunker, the more the pupils became convinced of a pedagogic conspiracy. One group even went so far as to dig holes in the beloved All Weather Playing Pitch in search of the secret hatchway.

Some say confession is good for the soul, but memory of this just makes me want to tell more stories ... That's not good, is it?

By the way, did you know that during the Triassic Period, Liverpool was off the East Coast of Java?

And All By Page 4!

I am going to be a terrible bore now, and bang on about an author I have just discovered - or rather, was introduced to: Mary Renault. I am reading a 1972 Book Club Edition of her novel, The Persian Boy. (50p in a charity shop). This picture (see below) is a hasty sketch of me entranced by this book.

Entranced? Yes, truly - although perhaps mesmerised in horror would be more accurate. So far we've had a paternal mutilation (nose and both ears sliced off), decapitation, a maternal suicide (complete with skull exploding as it hit the courtyard), the rape and murder of three pre-teen girls, the enslavement, 'gelding' and subsequent prostitution of a very young boy - and all by page 4. Erk. On Chesil Beach it is not ...

I expect it's all right, though, because it's historical and they're all foreign.

I've also been told (by the same grate fiend who gave me Mary Renault) to read the novels of Dorothy Dunnett. As encouragement, two plot threads were described to me, including one where the protagonist is forced to play a game of chess with live people. (Hmmm, where have I read that before, Ms Rowling?). One chess move will result in the death of a three year old boy. There are two small boys to choose from, both of whom may be the hero's small son. (Yes, I know this is a bit garbled, but I was in shock. Again, OCB it is not.)

The second 'great selling point' has the protagonist espying (it's also historical; a lot of espying went on in those days) the Love of His Life dozing serenely on a garden terrace by a fountain. He rushes to kiss her - and notices yellow straw poking from beneath her eyelids. She has been flayed and stuffed.

I came home and Goggled (that is not a spelling mistake, by the way). Yes, Goggled.

Dorothy Dunnett looks like my Demon Aunt - a fine woman - who has only ever stuffed anyone full of scones, fruitcake, Victoria Sponge, oatcakes and Malteser Biscuits.

But it's still stuffing, isn't it?

To extend this argument: does this mean that all les femmes d'un certaine age are plotting really terrible comeuppances? (Which may or may not involve stuffing.)

You might think I've jumped to this conclusion because of one photo of Dorothy Dunnett. Not so! Look at Mary Renault. (Click on the link as you have no idea just how tricky this insert image stuff is. It's gone wrong several times already.)

That's two of 'em for starters, and I've not even begun to mention my mother ...

I mean, I've been plotting terrible comeuppances for ages now ... So I was struck by a thought more shockingly dreadful than anything Dunnett and Renault could conjure - does this mean I, too, am of a certain age?

I pondered this for a good five minutes, but consoled myself with the thought that I am still too young to be referred to as sprightly*.

Right, onto page 5 ...

* Many thanks to Patrick Joseph who assured me of this fact.

Overheard Conversation #12

Location: Post Office Counter
Characters: Female Customer (limping and carrying a parcel and a shoe). Behind the counter, a Young Chit of a Girl, with dyed black hair and nose-stud.

Woman (PLACING BROWN PAPER PARCEL ON SCALES): I'd like to send this first class, please.
Chit (POINTING AT PARCEL): What's that say?
Woman: Near Keighley, West Yorkshire.
Chit: Airmail, then?
Woman: Airmail?
Chit: If it goes by boat it'll take longer.
Woman: Boat?
Chit: I'd pay the extra for airmail, if I was you.
Woman: First Class will do, thanks.
Chit: But it's going Abroad.
Woman: No, it's going to Yorkshire.
Chit: Isn't that Abroad?
Woman: No. It isn't.
Chit: It's in Ireland.
Woman: No, it really isn't.
Chit: You sure?
Woman: Yes. I'm sure.
Chit: It's in England?
Woman: Yes, it's in England.
Chit: Oh. That'll be £2.49, then.

The All-Purpose Apology

Dear Mum / Partner / Lord High Admiral *

I apologise deeply / profoundly / 1000m below sea level *

For not noticing

- that my shoes were muddy

- that the remote control was on the coffee table exactly where you said it was

- a 433 ft underwater pinnacle made of rock.*

My failure in this matter caused a significant amount of damage to

- the cream shag-pile in the hall

- the 42" wide-screen TV which makes even the skinny weather girl look short and fat

- a Royal Navy nuclear submarine. *

In my defence, I had lost my

- door key

- temper

- Signals Communications Officer.*

If I promise to

- do the dishes for a week

- stop talking during Antiques Roadshow especially when the experts are revealing the valuations of hitherto unprepossessing objects

- stay on dry land*

will you forgive me?

Yours etc. etc.

* Delete as appropriate

Keeping Mum

Schtum, quiet, silent, mute, inaudible, SHUSH! Note the topical title as today is Mothering Sunday. Where would we be without our mas? Unborn, that's where. But, actually, this post is really titled Why Coventry?

Being sent to Coventry is to be given the silent treatment. Why do we send people to Coventry? No-one seems to really know. (Not least the person being sent there.) Why not somewhere in Yorkshire? Huddersfield or Bradford? Places not famous for garrulity. (You can always tell a Yorkshireman. But you cannot tell him much.)

Is the miscreant Mexican also sent to Coventry? What about the degenerate Dane? The criminal Canadian? Is Coventry prepared for this mass immigration? Have they constructed enough doghouses?

If someone talks to you just a little bit, in grudging mumbles, teeth clenched, eyes averted does that mean you've been sent to (hurriedly checks AA Route Map for somewhere slightly north of Coventry) Nuneaton? Or if you're not being spoken to and also - magically - appear to have become invisible, are you being sent to (checks AA Route Map again - next page, further south) Royal Leamington Spa?

A note, printed in block letters. I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU DID THAT. (What? What did I do?) I'M SENDING YOU TO ROYAL LEAMINGTON SPA. (Where? Hurriedly checks AA Route Map). BE GRATEFUL IT'S NOT SWINDON. (I am, I am.)

I'd much rather be sent to Royal Leamington Spa. It sounds like a better class of punishment. Especially if you have a penchant for blue rinses, dentures, bathchairs and gin - I'm speaking hypothetically, of course. (Cough.)

All I know about Coventry is that it was bombed during the war, it has a cathedral and is populated by people (subdued, chastened, mildly contrite) who have no idea why they have been sent there.

(As an aside, am I the only person who assumes that whenever I travel uphill, I'm heading north?)

Let's Form a Collective

Look at that flock of cows!

Herd of Cows.

'Course I've heard of cows.

Cow Herd?

I don't care what the cow heard. I got no secrets from cows.

It's a funny old thing, English. (That's the language not the people though, granted, they're funny too.) I was considering this earlier whilst pondering on the murmuration of starlings swooping above the shopping trolleys in Tesco, Old Swan. (Nary a swan to be seen, mind you.) Murmuration suggests, well, murmuring but these birds were raucous chatterers. A prattle of starlings would be more appropriate. Let's leave the murmuration to Librarians. (Of whom -Welcome to our country!)

Collective nouns are beautiful but bizarre. Prides of lions ... Are lions proud? Are they more noble, arrogant, illustrious and self-satisfied than any other beast? The peacock'd have something to say about that, I'm sure. (Edit: Did have something to say and now, in beastly one-upmanship, comes in an ostentation.)

Or take baboons. They come in a troop, congress, rumpus, or flange. (I suspect flange is a wicked calmuny. Writers of dictionaries invent things all the time, mainly as acts of revenge.)

Buffalos come in gangs, herds or obstinacies. Do mules therefore come in stubbornesses? Alas, the poor mules come in a rake or barren.

Of course, one goes looking for these collective nouns and some wag, wit or Writer of Dictionaries has got there first.

An implausibility of platypi, a parcel of penguins? What fool would try to parcel a penguin? And the name for a group of monks is an abomination. No, quite seriously, it is an abomination.

What have crows and ravens ever done - except help the Vikings find land? - to warrant being grouped in murders and unkindnesses? But a pandemonium of parrots, a parliament of owls, a cloud of bats all are gorgeous and make perfect sense.

Do slimmers and opera singers come in scales? Journalists in columns? How about a wager of gamblers? A thicket of idiots? A number of mathematicians?

I am slapping down the gauntlet. Firstly, what is your favourite collective noun and secondly, how should teachers, writers, poets (gruntled and disgruntled), vicars, students and bloggers be grouped?