I can't resist filling my pockets with shiny, brown conkers. What's wrong with little boys today ... they don't seem to care about them any more.
When I was little, by 3.45pm there wouldn't be a conker in sight ... you had to run out of school before they all disappeared from under the tree by the bus-stop. There was conker warfare on the way home.
But I could collect sackfuls on the pavements around here.
Maybe I should donate a conker. (This year's crop does seem smaller in size if not in volume.)
Last year I showed two little boys how to tie their conkers on a string.
I remembered that my brothers used to go through arcane and secret rituals involving vinegar and baking in the oven.
If only I'd paid more attention.
I lost interest in my conkers as soon as they lost their shine. (This lovely book showed how to make dolls' house chairs from your conkers but, to be honest, it didn't really work.)
I never dreamed I'd be responsible for handing down a male tradition.