Telling Porky Pies

Some odd things recently have reminded me of my earliest memories. No idea why -- or indeed why I would remember those things. There is a vague temptation to write them down, but I don't know what I'd be doing that for. I am unlikely to be someone who writes their memoirs, or an autobiography -- why would I -- not least because if I carry on with this blog as I have set out to do, all the information will be here anyway.

The memories don't mean much anyway -- I remember being at playgroup (is that one word or two?) and being told I had been naughty and I had to go and sit on the naughty chair, and I remember feeling so upset about it. I have no idea whether I had been or not, probably not, as I was scared stiff of being bad or doing things wrong, but I have no idea. I do remember something, which must have happened a few years later, at someone I didn't know's house, probably the family of a friend of my sister's or something. I was talking to one of the non-adult members of that household (I have no idea what about) whom I remember distinctly saying that she thought I was "telling porky pies". I hadn't the faintest notion of what she was talking about. I remember trying to think it out there and then, but I couldn't. I tried to ask her what she meant but she said I knew, plainly I didn't, but there's no guarantee that she knew either I suppose. Other things, like the smell of school -- nothing unpleasant, probably the bleach or soap they clean the floors with -- is something I remember, along with the smell of tobacco smoke at my grandparent's house.
Memory might have a lot to do with how one feels at the time -- I was deeply unhappy as an adolescent, for a lot of reasons, partly the louche, oh so louche, school I was at. Partly just the way it was, and so I have little memory of that, even though it was ten years after the alleged porky pie.
Perhaps the question now is, will I remember this all in ten or twenty years time? And does it matter? Well, who knows. Something else that occurs, after seeing a documentary about Stephen Fry ('50 not out', and importantly author of The Liar), is that what we remember may of course not even be true. But more than that, is my memory telling me Porky Pies? And do I know what it means?