Leave the house early to beat the half-term caravans on the drive down to Dorset. There's a thin layer of slushy snow settled on the car, and the temperature gauge is reading only one degree. A taste of things to come.
The disease that is ravaging horse chestnut trees means that supplies for this year's Conkertition are down. But as any conker-botherer know, you cannot use a juvenile if you want any chance of success. You need a hardened, wizened two-year old. And there is a biscuit tin full of them.
There is no room for concessions. Freddie (aged four) weeps hot tears of rage as his conker splits in two. 'I feel really bad that I've made Freddie cry' says his rival (a forty-something cardiology consultant). 'But - you know, it's still a WIN!'
Cold hands, cold hearts and bruised knuckles. You've got to be hard to succeed. As hard as a wizened two-year old.
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