Remember the thrill of conkers? As a shiny, bunny rabbit-brown nut popped out of its case I was transported back to a time when going to get conkers was a really big deal. Though I wasn't acutely aware of it at the time, it meant autumn as upon us and lots of fun was to be had boring holes in them, attaching them to bits of string and seeing how long they'd last against your equally vicious and single-minded opponent.
Dad would drive us miles to find horse chestnut trees, and often we'd find ourselves on private land. There was no point going to parks or any trees we new of - they'd already been totally decimated but others in similar pursuit. Once we'd found our quarry we'd bake them in the oven, pickle them in vinegar, coat them in clear varnish - anything to make a champion. None of this really worked of course. One smart smash from another one and it'd be in bits. The playground was littered with mulched conkers.
I noticed the park's trees this morning were more or less untouched, with the pods just dropping naturally to the ground. This either means kids don't do conkers anymore or there's a super-efficient parkie on the look out for boys with long sticks.
Anyway, my one conker is sitting here by my side so I can admire it's rich patina and pretend it's still the Seventies. Just like a normal day.
