That lady had brown eyes; the shop assistant. She smiled and rustled the bag with a glint. I went on my way, a hand in my pocket, as I crossed the road, and dragged my feet.
My watch says I should leave; its red second hand. A breeze on my face as my hands turn too cold. Imagine my luck, the path is now littered, in cases so small, right below my feet.
Then all at once I see; that brown again. Different to before though no less stirring. Then now it begins, wholesome excitement, as my hat is conquered, in October wind.
As I look at the conkers. “Cool, great” I think. “Yes, I’ve got it…. that’s what I’ll write about” My phone barely has time to blink. Literally tickled as I move my palm across it. When in an instant, Flash… Flash… Flash… and the conkers are remembered forever. Stirring questions in my mind, like a big vat is stirred at a factory.
Indeed, if I may be so bold as to think, “what a strange word”. And why is it so called?
“Conker?” Is it because it…
Conkers the paths? Conkers this season? Conkers the imaginations of kids in the yard? Conkers my thoughts?
Or perhaps, my friend, yours. After just having perhaps partaken, in this little adventure.
By Amanda Lynsdale