I’ve said and done a lot of things. I’d like to have done more.

What I’ve come to worry about in recent years is that my stories may seem too implausible to be believed. I’m not a compulsive liar, hell, I generally feel terrible if I lie about the slightest thing. It feels so dishonourable.

In fact I usually say exactly what I mean. Often the tone of voice is what people hear and ignore the words. I don’t consider that lying because if they’d actually listened they would know what I meant.

I remember reading on Reddit someone criticising someone else for their tall tales. They’d scoured the person’s post history and created a synopsis of everything he’d claimed to have done. I didn’t care enough to determine who was in the right but it did get me wondering what one might determine from reading up on me and what I claim to have done.

Recently I was writing about how I’ve stayed over night in The Tower. That is to say this place:

I stayed in a house built into the outer wall near the gate in the top right corner. I think I still have my visitor’s pass but it doesn’t seem to be in my wallet. Hmph. Perhaps it’s in a drawer up North somewhere. We were given this though which I’m told cannot be bought in any gift shop (Hence the “The Body of Yeoman Warders” marking).

The other reason I’ve been thinking about this is because I’ve talked about a lot of things from my past with Jenny. Sometimes little trivial things of no real interest to anyone except me (I’ve no idea how she manages to be so patient). In digging through my old files I’ve been delighted to discover that some things that I thought stood no chance of ever surviving all these years… uh… have!

More on that tomorrow.



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