I was a masterful liar by the age of six
I have diddly-squat boy news this week so I've decided instead to share some excruciatingly embarrassing stories from my childhood. Now as a baby, I was a benign little boiled egg of a thing who looked cute in dungarees and rubbed my eyes adorably when I was tired with my chubby little fists, just like all other fatty babies. But by the time I was six or seven I had turned into a precocious little Miss.
More specifically, and rather more sinisterly, I had morphed into the most horrid liar. Thankfully, this trait didn't continue into adulthood, which is probably why I have a weekly column in a national newspaper about how bad I am at dating, and why when friends ask me what I think of their new boyfriends, I think 'Jackass' is an acceptable response.
But back then, boy, I would have given Lance Armstrong a run for his money. Seriously, Bill Clinton would have watched in awe as I once convinced my ballet teacher (waste of money, by the way, Mum) that my name was not Katy, but Rachel, despite that fact that she had heard my parents call me Katy and knew my name to be Katy. I convinced her so wholly that she not only began calling me by my new name, but also she dutifully instructed all of the class to call me Rachel too. I was only found out when, after a few weeks of living under my assumed identity, a classmate called me Rachel in the car park causing my Mum's ears to prick up. And so, the truth was out, made-up Rachel was no more and I was back to plain old Katy.
On another occasion when a girl in my class called Ciara (who had exquisite hair and pierced ears of which I was not at all jealous) told everyone her parents had built a new conservatory (very 'senior citizen chat' for six-year-olds, I know), I piped up that my parents were building a swimming pool. Realising I was in deep, I later casually asked my dad if he had ever considered building a pool? He did what he has done so may times since - gave my mum his 'Where did she come from?' look.