Memory of the week.

Conkers.

I don't know if I can accurately describe the joy that these things brought me in my youth. Also known as horse chestnuts, conkers are collected by kids in the UK and tied to the ends of strings. The object is to pit two conkers against each other by hitting them together until one breaks. The kid with the in-tact conker at the end is the winner. 

For me though, it wasn't about the actual game. I rarely played it. For me, (and I have no doubt, for other kids too) the appeal of conkers was the search. Conkers are most commonly found at the foot of a horse chestnut tree, encased in spiky, green shells. My sisters and I used to spend hours hanging back during walks, searching under these trees for the perfect conker. The thrill of the chase was so exhilarating; splitting open the green shell and peeling it back to find a perfect, round, shiny surface beneath. 

The best conkers were the biggest, shiniest, most unmarked ones, with flawless mahogany surfaces and a smooth, almost oily texture. Discovering such a conker was so incredibly satisfying. You'd often have to go through a few duds to find a real keeper - small, uneven, rough or greenish conkers were discarded immediately. Sometimes you would find two in one shell - which was cool if they were both of an acceptable quality, because that was like having a twin pair, but useless if they were somehow flawed, because the doubling-up would compromise their roundness.

The best thing about these little trinkets was that they were so temporary. After a few weeks, even the biggest, shiniest conkers would shrivel and dry out. And so began the search again, to find another perfect conker to replace your fallen champion. 

I miss these things.

An ethical dilemma.

OK, seriously. 

Today while I was at work I became part of yet another conversation about vegetarianism (two or three of us are vegetarians and we prepare food so it tends to come up a lot). Somewhere in the course of this conversation, one of my work mates told us that she knows someone who (wait for it...) raises, kills and eats her own guinea pigs.

Yes, guinea pigs. 

Apparently the idea behind this is that she only wants to eat meat that she knows for sure has been raised and killed in a humane manner. So, since apparently buying free-range isn't good enough anymore (which I concede, it's not - it's impossible to tell if something is actually "free-range" or not) she has decided to take matters into her own hands. But the thing that really got me about this conversation, though, was the fact that I seemed to be the only person who was completely and utterly horrified by this. 

Are you joking? How does she kill them? Is that even legal?  These made up just some of the many outraged questions I asked, but everyone else seemed to think this was yes, a little weird, but not totally unacceptable. "I can see where she's coming from," said the girl who told the story. I just stood there flabbergasted. What?

OK - I get the concept behind it. Only eat something if you know where it came from so you know you're being 100% humane. But seriously, guinea pigs? If you care about your meat that much - if you're so concerned about the welfare of animals that just buying organic or free-range isn't enough - why eat meat at all? It's like she's doing it just to prove a point. "Oh yeah, I only eat meat I know has been raised and killed humanely - I mean, I live on guinea pig meat, but still, aren't I ethical?"

Surely there are laws about killing domestic animals too? It's the same as doing this with dogs or cats. Exactly the same. You would think you'd need some sort of special license to be able to kill animals to certify that you actually did do it humanely. Wouldn't you?

I wonder if she names them. I wonder if she has a guinea pig killing station somewhere in her house. I wonder what she does with the skins. Urgh. 

Could you?