A life more ordinary

Why I’m giving up trying to dazzle

I once lied in a history class. I told lots of lies at school - mostly about having done my homework when I hadn’t - but this one was completely pointless and immediately called out. We were discussing Ruth Ellis (the last woman to be put to death in the UK) and I confidently said something about her last words. My teacher gave me a funny look, which made me flush hot, and told me I was misinformed. I pushed back, frantically aware I’d lost respect, but to no avail.

I knew why I lied in the moment and all these years later, I still recognise the urge that made me do it. I wanted my teacher to think I was extraordinary. I wanted to dazzle her with my knowledge but, because I was a lazy student, my actual knowledge was sparse and patchy. So a stupid lie it was.

Some part of me has always wanted to be extraordinary. As a slightly chubby kid with a bowl cut I had frequent visions of the moment I would be spotted by a modelling agent or a casting director and propelled into the spotlight. I imagined being a dazzling dancer or a singer who could make people cry with the power of my voice. Like a lot of kids who aren’t particularly happy as kids, I was sure I would be special one day. I didn’t try to hone a specific skill or work hard at school, to me the connection was tenuous. A star was a star, no matter what.

Of course none of these things ever came to pass. The closest I came to modelling was being stopped by a woman in Portobello Market in my twenties and asked if I’d like to be in a Dove real women advert. I was offended by the idea, devastated to be seen as a ‘real’ woman and not an otherworldly beauty. I put my name down anyway. They never called. At primary school, I auditioned for a West End production of Wind In The Willows (they went round the state schools in my area picking up kids to be backup animals in the chorus) but wasn’t called back. Well into my twenties I just told people I’d been in the cast. I even told Greg this lie when we met, with the casual ease which comes when you’ve told it so many times. To me, lying about being extraordinary was better than nothing.