Why we should all lie more often

There was a time when I was a world-class, Olympic gold-worthy liar. In my teens I told lies on an almost daily basis to my parents and teachers.

No, that lighter in my jeans pocket was not a sign that I was a smoker. No, that boy you just found in my room was not my boyfriend, he was my friend's boyfriend, crying on my shoulder about their break-up.

No, those missing slices of bread from the still-sealed loaf in the kitchen were nothing to do with me and definitely not a sign that I had broken the diet you put me on.

I had mixed success with these lies, but I practised and got better.

I successfully posed as a gay friend's fiancee at his boss's daughter's wedding; I pretended to be another friend's existing, long-term girlfriend when we went to see his grandparents in their care home.

Susannah Jowitt (pictured) says that there was a time when she was a 'world-class, Olympic gold-worthy liar'

I was so good at faking sickness to get out of tutorials at university that I would actually make myself ill (which was effective but a little self-defeating). I also continued lying to my parents about everything — from boyfriends to drug-taking, even down to what I weighed.

But, as I got older and stronger, I slowly realised I could actually tough it out with the truth, that I didn't have to conceal who I was.

These days — ironically known for my transparency and being a poor liar — I look back and feel ashamed about how much I lied. After all, as children we're taught that lying is unequivocally bad.

However, according to a new book that explores the fascinating world of lying, I shouldn't be so hard on myself.

Author Kathleen Wyatt believes certain lies have the power to do good, that they 'bound families, communities, society together', and are a 'vital social glue'. She points out that people often tell a fib for self-protection.

This rings true from adolescence. Lying was a self-defence mechanism; as much for preserving the peace of mind of my parents and teachers as for protecting myself.

However, she agrees we don't like to think of ourselves as liars — even though lying is something we do multiple times every day. If I were to ask you if you were a liar, for example, you'd probably be horrified.

But if I were to ask you how many fibs you had told in the past three days, I guarantee they would reach into the double digits. From saying, 'That's OK,' when someone steps on your toe on the bus, to telling your co-worker that, yes, her mullet haircut suits her.

Author Kathleen Wyatt believes certain lies have the power to do good, that they 'bound families, communities, society together', and are a 'vital social glue'. Stock image used

In Kathleen Wyatt's case, lying could have had a direct impact on her life. In January 1994, as a 20-year-old student, she suffered a heart attack at a bus stop

Yet the perception of lying — of being a liar — still lags behind. You are banned from calling someone a 'liar' in parliaments across the world, so toxic is its association.

As Kathleen Wyatt says: 'What I found again and again was that when I asked people about lies, they recoiled. But when I called them 'fibs', suddenly everyone was happy to talk and to admit to them. They discussed them as if discussing necessary foibles.'

So, what is a lie and what is a fib? Lying is often defined as 'the deliberate assertion of what the liar believes to be false, with the intention of creating a false belief in others'. But that goes for fibs, too; it's merely the purity or impurity of the intention that differs, i.e. you lie with bad intentions and fib with good ones.

As Kathleen points out, lying is embedded in society — backed up by the fact that there are 64 words for lies and really only one for the truth. White lies and fibs fall into the paler area of grey, alongside words like embroidering, exaggerating and 'gilding the lily'.

Kathleen is adamant that lying is vital for good human interaction: that we don't just lie to cover our own backs but to protect others and sometimes simply to oil the wheels of the day. She goes so far as to call it a superpower. 'I'm sorry I was late, I was stuck in traffic,' might be a lie but it's kinder than, 'I don't find you important enough to prioritise I leave on time.'

Then there's the friend who recalled: 'I told a barefaced lie to my very old, very doddery parents that, no, my mum did not have cancer, that the tests had come back clear. I felt momentarily awful about it, but it would have burdened their last few months together.

As it was, she was on lovely painkillers and palliative care and died very peacefully of what we and the doctors told my dad were 'natural causes'. He died soon after, in his sleep. I'm glad I lied.'

With young children, especially, the kind lie is a staple of parenting: yes, their painting is fabulous; yes, they did brilliantly in the nativity play. These lies build their confidence and reassure them they fit in well with a largely benign world.

In Kathleen Wyatt's case, lying could have had a direct impact on her life. In January 1994, as a 20-year-old student, she suffered a heart attack at a bus stop.

She was in a coma for several days. Her friends agonised over whether to tell her parents Kathleen had taken class A drugs ten days before, at a New Year's Eve party.

They decided to lie to her parents, to save them the pain, but tell the doctors the truth. In doing so, they informed the doctors' treatment decisions and may have saved her life.

But they freely admit that it was only because Kathleen was over 18 and that therefore doctors would be bound by patient confidentiality. In other words, the fact that they were able to lie enabled them to tell the truth.

One of the simplest lies I ever told ironically had the most lasting impact. It was the one to my mother about nicking the slices of bread. Such a tiny transgression, but the lies I repeated about how it wasn't me meant she never trusted me again. Instead, she worked harder to keep me on the dieting straight and narrow.

And as I got more and more miserable about this (and fat), I never forgave her for being the sort of mother who counted the slices of bread in a loaf in the first place.

So watch out for the lies that masquerade as tiny deceits: they can come back to haunt you.

• THE Social Superpower: The Big Truth About Little Lies, by Kathleen Wyatt (£18.99 from Biteback Publishing, or £7.95 on Amazon).