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.