22 Aug If The Truth Be Told…

Kate Gorringe-Smith considers the fine line between social tact and lies.

We have just hosted our middle son’s seventh birthday party. We had eight screaming little terrors at our house, not including our own, racing up and down the garden, throwing popcorn in each others’ drinks, and refusing to join in the nice party games we’d organised. It was wonderful.

After the horrors were evicted, leaving us with just our three, Daniel opened his presents. He uttered a variety of responses, the most notable of which was, “Oh – I don’t want that!” To which my opportunistic daughter responded, amid parental gasps, “Can I have it?” and the rejected gift was duly handed over in a remarkable display of childish expediency.

And then something interesting happened. My daughter said, “But you can’t tell Alex you didn’t like his present. You have to say in your thank-you note: ‘Thank you very much Alex. I was really pleased with your present and hope it wasn’t too expensive’.”

‘A little rough round the edges,’ I thought, ‘but not bad.’ However, my son’s indignant response was: “But that’s a lie!” And there you have it: I have successfully taught my daughter to lie. And I’m just starting to wonder if I should be worried about it.

Last year, I bought my newly nine-year-old daughter some lovely glitter-spangled fairy cards on which to write her thank-you letters, and was proud when she completed the task without too many reminders or too much grumbling. But then I read them. “Dear Sabrina, Thank you for the book voucher you gave me. I spent it straight away, but I didn’t like the book very much.” “Dear Katy, Thank you very much for my present. I gave it to Daniel.” “Dear Alice, I loved the jewellery box you gave me. It’s just like the one Grandma gave me for Christmas!”

Perhaps just a little more supervision was required.

Don’t they teach them how to write thank-you letters at school? I should have mentioned that you have to say nice things in thank-you letters. I had a quiet word with my daughter. It was too late for this year, but next year, they would be more appropriate (albeit not nearly as funny).

The ‘lying thing’ came up again this week when my husband had his hair cut. The subject of my haircuts had already been dealt with fairly summarily. I wear mine very short – a no-no for my long-haired lassie, who told me last time I booked an appointment: “Oh Mummy, don’t get your hair cut! It looks pretty now and when you get it cut you look so ugly!” Gee, er, thanks…

So when Daddy came in with his spunky new haircut, I wasn’t too shocked when our daughter dismissed it in a few choice words as, basically, the pits. Outraged, I told her that we do not greet new haircuts in this way. “No,” said her father, amused, “you have to lie.” “Gee, Dad, that haircut looks really great,’ said our daughter, and we all laughed.

I think another chat is in order. My mother told me about ‘white lies,’ the kind of response we make to questions of ‘the does-my-bum-look-big-in-this?’ variety that really shouldn’t be asked. But my husband and son are right, they are lies and I suppose that, as such, they should be avoided. Even though certain fibs are socially acceptable, it is surely better to have a reputation for telling the truth.

After all, answers can be tactful rather than downright untrue. Or you can just make careful omissions: ‘Dear Sabrina, Thank you for the book voucher you gave me. I spent it straight away.’ And ‘Dear Katy, Your present was very thoughtful.’ And ‘Hi Dad…’ Well, perhaps it’s better not to notice the haircut at all.

Illustration by Scott Fraser