"I told a white lie, and it spiralled completely out of control."

I have a confession to make: two years ago, I told a white lie.

I was on my way home from riding my horse (I know, I’m a pathetic cliché) when I pulled in at a nearby service station.

The friendly cashier asked me how my day was, but I am an antisocial grump wasn’t in the mood for a chat.

“Been at work?” he asked, presumably mistaking my filthy polo shirt for some kind of uniform.

“Yes,” I said, paid for my petrol, and left.

I was pathetically pleased with myself for getting away with it. From now on, I would choose who I wanted to make small talk with! I wouldn’t be forced to explain my life to strangers!

Besides, everyone knows white lies don’t have any far-reaching consequences. This would definitely not come back to bite me in the ass!

Since that fateful day, I have been forced to answer never-ending questions about the nature of my imaginary job. Worried about exposing my deception by repeating my answers too often, I’m forced to invent ever-more elaborate shenanigans that me and my (imaginary) coworkers get up on the (imaginary) job.

Watch the Mamamia team confess to the biggest lies they’ve ever told…

A few months back, an (imaginary) horse escaped from its (imaginary) paddock. One day, the (imaginary) tractor broke down. On a particularly memorable occasion, I joked about my (imaginary) boss going away on a holiday, and was forced to create an entire (imaginary) itinerary. It turns out the cashier at the service station just loves Europe in the summertime!

Last week, he wisecracked, “Slacking off again?” as I paid for a packet of chips.

I laughed manically. Yes, I am a slacker at a job that doesn’t exist! This is where lies get you, people!

It turns out I’m not the only one to have fallen victim to a white lie gone wrong.

One friend of mine lied to her hairdressers about having a boyfriend. Seven years later, she still has a “boyfriend” every time she goes for a blow dry.

Another was asked by an attractive guy if she was a “surfer”. She answered in the affirmative, and had to field technical questions about surfing for weeks.

My personal favourite was the friend who told her grandma that her wrist tattoo was a stamp from a club. Eventually, her grandma rang her mum to discuss her “going out problem”, because she always had a fresh stamp on her wrist.

As for me, I’ve had a few suggestions about how to handle my little dilemma.

I could stop visiting the service station altogether of course, but their petrol is cheap and they often have TimTams on sale.

I could lie about being fired, but how would I explain my continued presence? (Also, I don’t appreciate the character implications. I work damn hard at my fake job.)

I could come clean: tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

I could move my horse, change my name, and never visit the small town of Wilberforce again.

But I’ll tell you what I’m going to do: keep lying.

I’m used to it by now.

Have you ever told a white lie that spiralled out of control?