Last night we had some friends round for a party. As the wine flowed, the tales got funnier. Someone told a particular tale, which is probably some sort of urban myth, but it made everyone laugh including the kids. Afterwards, it struck me that it really was a bloody fine example of the virtues of telling the truth first time round. The story went a bit like this (all names made up by me which is why they are a bit crappy!).
Peter and Jane had a dog. Let’s call it Rover. One evening, Rover came home bearing a gift in the form of the next door neighbours beloved rabbit. The rabbit, let’s call it Bunnykins, had previously been white and fluffy and full of life. Bunnykins was now extremely muddy, slightly bloody, and most definitely dead.

Peter and Jane uttered a fair few swear words, and drank some wine to calm their nerves while they tried to work out what the fuck to do. They both agreed that they couldn’t tell their neighbours that Rover had killed little Bunnykins. There’s no way they could continue living next to each other after that. Now, it may have been something to do with the amount of wine they had drunk on account of their nerves, but rather than chucking dead little Bunnykins in the bin and pretending to know nothing, they got out the L’oreal elvive, and before you know it, Bunnykins was once again white and fluffy, if a little salon fragrant. Little Bunnykins was then blow dried. In the dead of night, Peter snuck next door, and placed little Bunnykins back in his hutch.

The next day, after work, the neighbours called at Peter and Jane’s door. Now, Peter and Jane had expected them to be upset, but not quite on this scale. I mean, here they were, two fully grown adults, breaking their heart over something which Gordon Ramsey wouldn’t hesitate to serve up for lunch with a side of braised red cabbage.

Wine poured, and tissues distributed, their neighbours explained the reason for their distress. It seemed that little Bunnykins had died around 5 days earlier. Bunnykins had been buried with due ceremony by the cabbage patch in the garden.  A plaque had been erected, and tears had been shed.

Today, when they had returned from work, they had found little Bunnykins freshly coiffured and lying stone dead in his hutch.

The moral of the story? If you don’t tell the truth first time round, you had better be bloody good at keeping a straight face when it all unravels!