I've got no-one to play with

The street where I grew up had massive conker (horse chestnut) trees along the road.  They had been planted when the houses were built shortly after the turn of the 20th century, so by then were taller than the houses.  Of course, they had been planted far too close to the houses so many have since been removed but in those days there were around twelve of them in a short street.  Living there, I was able to collect conkers as they fell but come the Autumn, they were a big draw to the local youth (mainly boys) who used to descend on the street every day.  There was only one man in the street that owned a car (the unfortunately named John Thomas) and he was something big at the steelworks and drove to work, so the boys would throw sticks up into the trees to try and dislodge fresh conkers without worrying about damaging things (they still got the sharp end of my mother's tongue if she caught them but that's another story).  If a fresh conker fell, all the boys would run over to try and be the first to get it; there were never any left on the ground.

I often think how things have changed.  Back then, conkers were currency; conkers were status; conkers were sport and dare I say it, they could also be scandal.  Had that lad baked his in the oven to harden it?  Had it been soaked in vinegar?  All against the rules, of course.  Nowadays, youngsters never look twice at a conker; if I was to suggest to one that he went and got a seed from a local tree, tied it to a piece of string and let me try and smash it with mine, he'd think I was mad.  A shame; it was good fun.

All is not lost though; the World Conker Championship is still held at Oundle, only about forty miles from where I now live although sadly, due to the virus, they have had to be cancelled this year.