Ever taken credit for something you hadn't done?

butterandjam, what a lovely story. So glad for your Mum, getting her education after all.

The daughter of a friend was struggling with a zip in a garment for her GCSE assessment.
My friend, a very able needlewoman, did the job, taking care that it was not absolutely perfect, so that it appeared to be the work of the girl.
The teacher complimented her on the finished article, saying that it would have received top marks " if it wasn't for that rather poor zip".

Sorry - I'll try again!

Another zip sewing story. The daughter of avfr

I offered to provide a cake for the Harvest Supper at church.

Short of time, so I bought a ‘home made type’ one from the farmers market, (they were very good).

When we were at the supper, someone commented on how good my chocolate cake was, what was the recipe?

“Oh, it’s just 6, 6, 3,” I answered, meaning the measurements, (back in ounces), flour, butter, sugar, eggs.

The chap was well impressed, should have admitted it was ‘bought’, but didn’t.

🍰

My DH, was Military officer. He was the Senior officer running a Training course for International serving junior officers. It was expected he /we had to entertain them at least once, to see them " off duty". We tended to do it before they went onto Christmas leave.
So I would buy bulk Chicken Curry plus Vegetable curry and Rice for about 30 from Asda . With Nan breads etc it went down a treat.
I had letters and little gifts (declaring them as per Government advice) how amazing my curries were.
Only one who knew my DH...

I sometimes take credit for reading books that I have never read, not intentionally, it’s just that I am a avid reader and have read so many books over the years that I simply lose track, and because I have watched so many films/dramatisations of famous books I tend to think I have read them on occasion.
I was convinced that I had read Wuthering Heights having read most other Brontë novels but when I picked it up one day and started reading it I realised that I hadn’t read it all.

One of my DD's was struggling with her homework. She had to draw a raccoon and was getting more tearful and cross with every rubbing out. My Mum, who was at mine that day, was a very good pencil artist, so she sketched a really good raccoon in the book.
My DD basked in the praise from her teacher. On Open Day when school work was displayed. my DD's book was on her desk, opened at the page with the raccoon. The teacher walked past me and my Mum and said. "Well done, Granny". She had known all the time.

Years ago, my mother was the secret author of "my" wonderful school essay on "Cranford".

Mum, one of 7 very bright siblings in a rural family, missed out on formal education because after the eldest got a place at grammar school, their impoverished parents struggled with the expense of shoes, uniform, bus etc. So they didn't make that mistake again. The rest including Mum went to the one-room village school and left at 15 to start work.

When I went to the same Grammar school as her older sister, Mum was absolutely thrilled to vicariously follow the education she'd missed. She learnt a little French and Latin and devoured all my English lit text books. She loved to talk about them with me. She helped me appreciate Shakespeare; and Austen; introduced me to many other writers she'd found at the library.

Teenage me thought my O level text Cranford was dead boring with absolutely zero relevance to my liberated life in the 1960's. Mum said I'd missed the point about social issues and the humour. We argued. I couldn't/ wouldn't write an essay about the boring life of women in Cranford. Mum said "I can and will", and did. Her handwriting was rubbish so I copied it out.

My teacher wrote on it " This essay is brilliant, Butterjam, well done. You should consider going to university to read literature."

Mum was tickled pink.

I went to University, read English Lit, and changed my mind about Elizabeth Gaskell.

Not that I can remember - which, of course, does not mean that I have never done it, just that I have, most conveniently forgotten all about it.

I mean real forgotten not pretend forgotten.

Mine is sewing-related too. In junior school, we had to make an apron. I couldn’t - or, more accurately, wouldn’t - sew. My mother finished it off for me, and I handed it in without confessing.

My dad was a very good cook and he came to stay for a while after my mum died. I invited some friends round for dinner and to meet him. Everyone just assumed that I had done all the prep and the cooking and lavished praise on everything. It soon got beyond a point when I could confess without making things feel awkward. My dad just smiled and winked at me. We had a good laugh about it afterwards. He was a lovely man and I still miss him.