nose

I’ve been thinking about a lie I told a friend in childhood — we, I should clarify: his nanny and I.

Lewis was rich, pampered, gullible. His parents (whom you never saw) had given him a kiddie bankcard which he used to rent movies and pre-order video games. The kitchen shone like it was still in the showroom, except the fridge was full of French yoghurt and juice boxes which we were free to raid. Needless to say, I made sure we played at Lewis’ house.

It was over supper in the kitchen that I/she/we told the lie. You do know, Lewis Williams, nanny said, her voice like the tannoy in a railway station, eating bogies gives you cancer.

Lewis couldn’t deny that eating bogies was precisely what he was up to. His plate was an untouched collection of colours: brown (chicken nuggets), red (ketchup), white (potato), green (peas). His finger was on an expedition, bending his nose out of shape like a rat in a bin bag.

It’s like this, nanny said, the little hairs in your nose work hard to keep out the bad stuff.

What bad stuff? Lewis said, his guilty finger now hanging in the air like a wand.

Old dust, cigarette smoke, car fumes, other people’s viruses and so if you eat your boogers… Nanny let Lewis finish the sentence, but turned to me for confirmation, isn’t that so?

Yeah, I said, common knowledge, before watching with a combination of awe and shame as Lewis began to cry.