The lies we tell

It was a few years ago now, but I remember it really vividly. We were at a mall and a mum (I assume) was laying into a small kid, who was crying hard. Loudly she said, one word per smack, “how … many … times … have … I … told … you … not … to … hit … your … brother”.

The irony!

Along the same lines, Lance has a Christmas Day post about the lies we tell little kids around this time of year.

Finding out the truth about Santa was a pretty painful experience for me, not helped by the fact that my parents knew the old guy who played the role at James Smith (a big department store in Wellington when I was growing up). So, each year I would go and tell him what I wanted and be completely blown away by how he seemed to know all about me, and even remembered what I asked for last year. He must be real.

All my friends at school thought it was hilarious, but I would meticulously lay out the evidence in favour.

As we all know, only the kids who have been good all year get presents.

Santa knows if you tell lies!

Do as I say not as I do, I suppose.