Pants On Fire

Last night I told Mrs PM about a dream I had.

She is always regaling me with her wild nocturnal fantasies about epic crusades through bizarre worlds created by her subconscious mind; I thought I would return the favour. Here’s how the conversation went.

PM: I had a dream last night.

Mrs PM: Liar!

PM: What? What makes you think I’m lying?

Mrs PM: I can tell. You’re wearing your lying face AND you’re talking with your lying voice.

PM: How DARE you! I am not lying.

Mrs PM rolls her eyes

Mrs PM: Go on then – tell me about your “dream”!

PM: I dreamt that I was having a fight with the Grim Reaper in our house. There was nothing I could use to defend myself so I opened the cupboard under the stairs and grabbed the nearest thing: the hoover.

Mrs PM: Now I KNOW you’re lying – you don’t know where the hoover lives because you never use the bloody thing.

PM ignores that comment

PM: Anyway, I started hitting him with it – and before you know it – I was Dyson with Death! HA HA HA!!! Get it?

Mrs PM: Anybody who thinks you are funny needs to seriously get a life.

The insults aside, Mrs PM knew that I was not telling the truth. I can catch her out but such occasions are very rare. I am a liar – but a very poor liar.

I can tell all manner of porkies on this blog, dear reader, and frequently do.

Actually, that’s not being fair to myself; I don’t lie exactly, I just exaggerate sometimes.

You can’t see me or hear me, dear reader, so you are none the wiser.

The little exchange with Mrs PM got me thinking about lying. How can Mrs PM tell that I am telling a fib? She claims that my face is taken over by, what she calls, the imp. Apparently I yield to the mischievous little goblin within and my face becomes an open book. And then I speak and my voice changes, thus confirming my deceit.

I have decided to do some research on this and there are, supposedly, several tell-tale signs that the person you are talking to is a monstrous fibber. Here are some of them:

(1) Avoiding eye contact – when a person tells a lie they will not look directly into your eye. I’ve tried this; I stared at myself in a mirror and said to my reflection: “I am the sexiest man alive and every woman in the world wants to have my babies”. That must be the truth because I stared right into my reflection’s eyes and uttered this incredible statement. Guess what? I didn’t flinch. It must be true then – I really AM sex on a stick.

(2) Adding unnecessary detail – a liar will waffle on about their lie, dredging their imagination for all manner of drivel to convince the person they are talking to that the bullshit being generated is in fact true. I tried this too. I said to my reflection: “I met Megan Fox, Jennifer Aniston, Madonna, Lady Ga Ga, Beyoncé and all of Girls Aloud and they begged me for a date because, in their opinion, I am the most handsome specimen of manliness on the planet.” I then added all sorts of other nonsense about wild nights with Hollywood sex kittens and my reflection didn’t flinch. Crikey – I need to reconsider my career.

(3) Bad body language – liars will touch their mouths to subconsciously prevent the lie from escaping their lips and also shift uncomfortably from foot to foot. Again I watched my reflection as I said “All of the top supermodels in America have chartered a jet to Manchester with the sole purpose of persuading me, the Plastic Mancunian, to marry them. They spent the entire flight fighting with each other over who gets to ask me first.” Guess what? I didn’t cover my mouth and I didn’t move. It must therefore be true.

I decided that I needed a second opinion and tried these above facts out on another guinea pig: Mrs PM. I started to tell her the three lies above but I had barely uttered the first sentence when she interrupted with: “Lying voice and lying face. You are a LIAR!”

Alas, she didn’t believe me.

I am still unconvinced, dear reader so I am going to tell you about another dream I had. See if you can tell whether I am lying or not:

I walked into an undertaker’s shop and one of the coffins came to life. It started to attack me so I ran away. Unfortunately the coffin was relentless and pursued me for miles. I somehow managed to get home and lock the thing outside. The coffin wasn’t deterred and hurled itself through the lounge window to get to me. Horrified, I ran upstairs, figuring that a coffin wouldn’t be able to climb the stairs. I was wrong. In a blind panic I ran into the bathroom. The coffin was determined and threw itself into the bathroom, smashing down the door in the process and trapping me. I was caught in a blind panic and in desperation I opened the bathroom cabinet and launched everything I could at the coffin; shampoo, toothpaste, bathroom cleaner etc. It was only when I threw the Benylin that the coffin stopped.

Okay – I admit it – I just used this post to justify telling two pathetic jokes.

I am deeply and sincerely sorry, dear reader.

Honestly.