9:38am Tuesday 24th August 2010
By Helen Mead
SECRETS are something we associate with childhood, whispering through cupped hands to school friends in classroom corners.
But people keep secrets throughout life. A recent survey revealed that, in relationships, even the most committed, honest partners have one or two secrets from each other.
It’s probably safer that way. If my husband knew all there was to know about me, he would probably have run a mile. And his stiff upper lip means leaves me in no doubt that there is stacks I don’t know about him.
I don’t see it as keeping secrets – which to me sounds a bit sinister – more as withholding information others don’t necessarily need to know. This is not always a bad thing, particularly on public transport.
I travel regularly on buses and trains, where people air the most intimate information over mobile phones. Only last night, I was among 20 people on a bus, listening to a woman loudly describing an operation she’d had recently. She was sitting near the back, while I was at the front, yet – despite one dodgy ear – I could hear her every word.
And on the train I once stood next to a girl having what seemed to be a job interview over a mobile phone. She relayed all her personal details – sufficient for anyone to assume her identity – and the most disturbing thing was she didn’t seem to notice the 50-or-so people within earshot. People using mobile phones often don’t have any sense of personal privacy.
Sometimes it is necessary to keep secrets. People obviously need to keep mum about surprise parties or holidays. And when someone tells you something in confidence, it’s obviously important not to pass it on. In this respect, however, adults are far less trustworthy than children. Children feel pride in the fact that they are keeping a secret. Yet many adults simply cannot resist the urge to gossip and go blabbing to friends.
I can count on two fingers the number of people I’d feel happy sharing ‘classified’ information with.
I’ve recently added to the snippets of news I choose to withhold from my husband. My 12-year-old daughter persuaded me to buy a pair of shoes in a sale. They’re not the usual flat, sensible variety I’m usually seen in, and I told my daughter that with my non-existent social life, I probably won’t get chance to wear them until her wedding day.
“Don’t tell your dad,” I told her. For some reason – I can’t explain why – I wanted to keep them secret, although now this is in print, the cat is out of the bag.
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