Gertie has these strangely precise ideas about the way that life will work out and what will happen when she is a 'bit bigger'. For example, though she currently fears Kempton, our new golden retriever puppy, she thinks that she will not be frightened of her by the time she is four.
She's quite convinced that she will like salad when she is six, though she will not touch the stuff now.
Yesterday, I went to give blood and as I was collecting Gertie and her brother from nursery she asked me about the plasters on my finger and my arm, so I explained the process to her as carefully as I could. She was intrigued.
"I'll probably give blood when I'm a bit bigger, won't I Mummy?"
"Yes, you might do."
"Maybe when I'm ten?"
"Well you have to be a bit older than that. Perhaps when you're eighteen."
She thought for a minute.
"So they just put a tiny prick in your finger first?"
"Yes, a tiny little prick."
"And it didn't hurt at all? It must have hurt a tiny bit."
"Well maybe a tiny bit, for only a second and then it is all better."
"Yes, but it did hurt a tiny bit for a little while?"
She thought for another minute.
"I don't think I will give blood when I'm eighteen. In fact, no. I probably won't."
So, a practice clearly not in the same league as liking puppies and eating salad.