Like polished wood. Beautiful, eh?
I have, of course, put childish things behind me, and no longer spend time loitering under horsechestnut trees. But today, cycling through Victoria Park, a conker fell and hit me on the head. Boink! It's your childhood calling!
I stopped, naturally, and there they were: a host of nut-brown conkers, strewn across the path. Don't kids collect them nowadays? A sweeper was coming along, so I rescued some, and here they are, on my window-sill.
The thing about the game of conkers: it's a crock. It's a stupid game. You invariably miss the other conker and hit your knee, or the strings get tangled up and your conker gets yanked painfully out of your hand, or it shoots off the string and shatters on the ground. And at school there was always some idiot who took it all seriously and soaked his bloody conker in vinegar or whatever, or cooked it in the oven, or stuck a stone inside of it. As if it really mattered.
No, the best moment with conkers was always when you first got hold of them – either spotted on the ground (get there early, on the way to school), or, even better, when your stick hits a ripe case up in the tree, and down it comes, and you run over and see it lying on the grass: half out of its jewel-case shell, glistening, deep brown.
From that moment, though, it's all downhill. Of course you have to take them home; they're too beautiful just to leave rotting away on the ground. But then what do you do with them? After a day the shine's all gone. Either you end up throwing them all away, or…you drill a hole through the middle, put a string through, and play conkers.
Is the game of conkers just a way of justifying all that effort? – of making it seem like you're embarked on a sensible practical activity, preparing to engage in manly combat with your fellow conker enthusiast? – when what you were really attracted to was the ephemeral beauty of the fresh conker, and the thrill of getting it.
These are deep waters.
Mick Hartley 
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