Gullibility

By: Elaine Lutton

As an adult, I do not think that I am gullible. I like to check my facts, ascertaining what is likely to be true from several different and independent sources. The posts on social media do not always reflect the views of the most informed, and so far I have managed to avoid that curse of the modern age, the scam. I just hope that Eternal

Vigilance will protect me. When in Doubt, Delete, is my motto. I just hope my good fortune continues.

Alas, this was not always the case. As a small child, I believed everything that my family told me; furthermore, on discovering how easily I could be fooled into believing virtually anything, they took particular pleasure in putting notions of the most misleading kind into my infant noddle.

Some of the things I was told, and firmly believed, were of a fairly benevolent nature, and not unlike many told to the young and impressionable. Stories of Father Christmas and his Reindeer, for example. He must have visited; the proof was surely the disappearance of the mince pie and the small glass of sherry that was waiting for him to provide the sustenance and energy enabling him to continue his rounds. The carrots, too, had obviously been eaten by Rudolph and Co, though I distinctly remember worrying that the old man might possibly get stuck in our chimney and that his red jacket and trousers would get dirty during his efforts to extricate himself. And what about the reindeer? The chimney was far too small for them. Surely, they would have to perch precariously on our roof, whilst waiting for Santa to complete his work, emerging with the carrots as a reward for their patience and good behaviour.

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Please note that it was not the lack of logical thinking that was the cause of my credulity. For instance, when I was very young, possibly six or seven years old, I was discovered by my elder brother who at that point was five years older and wiser than myself, and remarkably still is, in torrents of tears. On fraternal enquiry, I admitted I did not want to die and be buried, an inescapable fate as I saw it. He enquired as to why I was so worried about this inevitability. Was I afraid of the dark, the worms, not being judged suitable for admittance to Paradise, or worst of all, not quite dead? None of these applied. I admitted that a far more dreadful fate was the cause of my tears; never again to taste the delights of vanilla ice cream!!

He calmed my fears by stating that since I was dead, my brain would be dead also, and I would never appreciate what I was missing. Complete reassurance. I have never worried about death since.

Another story I was told had no such happy ending. My brother and I were taken with my mother to Bridlington, a seaside town on the Yorkshire Coast, where she had been told that the sea air would prove good for her recovery from problems associated with bad lungs. My father was left behind, still grafting away at his work in Leeds whilst his family lived the high life at a distinctly seedy boarding house in this fishing town. To come to the point, my mother loved the sea and since she had been advised not to go swimming in the balmy seas of the Atlantic in Autumn, she would love nothing more than to climb aboard a kind of large open fishing boat called a “coble”. For a relatively small fee, which provided some small income for the skipper, each passenger would be issued with hand lines and bait and encouraged to attempt to catch their own supper. Little Elaine was provided with fishing tackle also and was thrilled to pieces when she landed a small fish.

Oh, the joy of it, the pride I felt in my prowess. I lived off the story for years, well into my adulthood, before my unfeeling family finally felt that I was old enough to hear the truth and disillusioned me. Apparently, one small girl had fallen asleep on the trip and my fellow passengers had thought it fun to place this tiddler of a fish, that was caught by someone else, on my line before awakening me. There are times when I believe, certainly prefer, my own original version of this piscine adventure.

I could recount many other tall tales that I was told and firmly believed; that my beloved ice cream was made from seaweed. Though to me, it seemed distinctly creamy, I was assured that cows had nothing to do with it. That P.O.W.s had to lick razor blades to maintain their iron levels, thus preventing anaemia. There were more “stories” I was told, too many to recount. How did I finally become the rational person that I am today?

On a Sunday evening the Gray’s and the Hawkings, friends of my parents, would often visit our home. The Gray’s would frequently bring with them a newspaper, namely, The Sunday Pictorial. I now realise this was to provide entertainment for all, certainly not to be taken seriously except by those of an extremely gullible nature, much like the sillier posts that one can find on the social media of today. Whilst my parents and their friends were exchanging gossip and eating cake, I took this Fount of Wisdom into the next room and discreetly perused it. There I encountered the astonishing by-line,“ Virgin School Girl Gives Birth to Baby Lamb”, accompanied by a picture of a somewhat embarrassedlooking lamb. This was too much for even me; the scales fell from my eyes! Since then, I have been a fervent follower of the Empirical Approach to all I read, see and hear.