My daughter is eight and three-quarters. She has got dirty fingernails. She has a plaster on her knee. And she is much more interesting than you.
She collects worms. She has renamed all the planets. And she knows the Latin name for all the flowers in her garden.
When she grows up she wants to be a vet. Or a horse.
I think she will be an engineer.
She looks behind every rock. She wants to know how everything works. She never gives me a minute's peace.
She is interested in everything. That's what makes her interesting.
You used to be like my daughter. Back in the day. You were curious. You asked questions. Your thirst for knowledge was insatiable.
But something happened. You stopped pulling the legs off insects. You stopped looking in rock-pools. You stopped being interested. And you stopped being interesting.
Curiosity killed the cat. But it didn't kill you.
Be curious again. Be interested again. And be interesting again.
