Conkers

big fat ripe fruit high up in the tree, knock it down with a well-aimed stick, and open up the green case to reveal the beautiful glistening nut-brown conker inside. That was as good as it got though: you took it home, and within a few hours it was beginning to look dull. A couple of days later you threw it out. Trouble is, conkers are not much use – apart, that is, from making horsechestnut trees – and it seems so sad that such beautiful objects should just rot away. Maybe the game of conkers is a boyish attempt to deny the transience of beauty. Maybe – I feel a burst of wisdom coming on here – all culture is like that, an attempt to immortalise the ephemeral nature of life. Or something.