Liar Liar, Pants On Fire

I love hearing what children have to say. Most of the time they're honest, quick and funny - their innocence wrapped around their little shoulders like a sweet-smelling garland.

Not so the girl next door, who is a total liar. She doesn't just slip in the odd forgiveable fib like most kids do; she pukes out one big fat fabrication after another, like turbo-charged projectile verbal vomit, reeking rot dripping in bile and not welcome in our house.

It's astonishing to hear her. She's nearly 10 and old enough to know better, but she's clearly got issues. She's nice in some ways, and usually she and my daughter get on brilliantly. But by golly she doesn't half talk some shite.

Here is a fresh selection dredged up from the vomitorium of stinking lies she's spewed out recently:

"My dad's car takes diesel and it costs £300 to fill it up"

"I looked in an encyclopedia to see what robbers eat, and it said horse meat"

"My mum lets me take my duvet to school so I can sleep in class if I want"

"I can have anything in the world I want, whatever it costs"

"I was the first baby ever to be born after 4 o'clock in the afternoon"

"I can't play with my toy push-chair because my cat jumped into it last night, did a poo in it, and then broke it"

"I was in the garden and put my hands out to see if it was raining, and a bird's egg fell right into my hands"

Surprisingly, the girl next door's nose is still quite small.