Telling the truth can be a complicated business.

It was one of the first lessons I learned at a very tender age.

Still unable to grasp the importance of the school timetable in my first week, I rolled up for class 20 minutes late having been diverted by a rather splendid game of marbles. Four black jack chews and a sherbet dip were at stake.

By the time I walked in, the teacher was so fraught that lying seemed to be the best option.

Five minutes later I was before the headmistress because my colorful story about helping a blind man find his way home after his old crippled guide dog had dropped dead outside the playground gates was not believed.

At the end of the day, when my mother came to collect me, she was hauled in to the head’s office where I was forced to recount my rather elaborate story before being made to apologize to the grownups and promise always to tell the truth. Just as we were about to leave, she reminded my mother school finished at 3:30 pm and noted she had arrived five minutes after the bell.

My mother was really annoyed -- angry...

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