On October mornings the parks and pavements are liberally scattered with
shiny, mahogany coloured horse chestnuts. I always want to pick them up - not
just because they’re such beautiful things, but as an instinct left over from
when I was a kid. The evenings spent in parks trying to find big ones hanging
from low branches that could be dislodged with a thrown stick, the arguments in
the playground about suspected tampering, the sore knuckles after your opponent
has missed a shot. They don’t play conkers in Bulgaria so those gorgeous orbs
are generally just kicked or thrown around.
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