For the past three months, I have been lying to my partner: routinely, systematically and often extremely creatively. I’ve been appalled by how good I am at it, while also being thrilled at the results. Every moment spent whispering poisoned words to the love of my life has simply confirmed a terrible lesson to me: sometimes lying is good.
One of my fondest memories is watching Game of Thrones in a bar in New York. It was when there was peak excitement around the show, when water-cooler conversation was dominated by sunken-eyed fans decompressing the various traumas we’d gone through the night before. Sitting in this bar, I was lucky enough to accidentally experience one of the show’s bigger twists. Watching everyone gasp in unison, scream and applaud was a brilliant experience.
