October 7th – Although plainly of no use to me whatsoever, I still can’t walk past the fallen fruit of the horse chestnut tree without stopping to admire the shiny conkers, crack open a few husks and find the treasure within.
It’s programmed into me, like it must be to every British man of a certain age.
I’ll keep a few in my pocket to guerrilla plant, I guess. Such attractive seeds.
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