Being Friends with 8-Year-Olds

I like being friends with 8-year-olds. They're nice. We drove my darling Lydia to an activity last night and these were the major conversational points of the evening and the reason I should hang out with her more often (she's a real ego booster and a hoot):

1. She loves me because I'm so bonny.

2. She loves my flat.

3. I grow my own food (we brought her parents beetroot from the allotment, which I assume is why this came up).

4. I am nice.

5. She's seen my wedding photos (we're Facebook friends) and I was bonny then too.

6. She looooves America.

7. Steve should not talk all posh (he was taken to task for pronouncing 'united' in the North American way--u-NI-ted--rather than in the Scottish way--u-NI'ed).

8. Steve looks like he could turn into the wolfman but I'm soft and delicate (this was accompanied by hand kissing).

Sometimes I can't understand Lydia. When I met her at the door of her house, I thought she was telling me something about bacon. In fact, she was telling me that she was sure that we were going to spend the evening baking (which was true). She had deduced this from the picture of the chef on the announcement (placed there with the intention to suggest cookery) and because the corner of her announcement had a sliver of red candy on it (placed there because the paper was shoved in my bag which, unbeknownst to me, contained an unwrapped peppermint).