By Rachel Canwell
In our local park is an avenue of chestnut trees. I often walk there with my children. Every step fighting the urge to run.
It is worse in the autumn when their newly burnished majesty drops temptation in my way. Those lime green Sputnik balls, that crack and show me mahogany. Both Autumns past and the hope of Autumns yet to come.
Every year I promise resistance. Every year it’s just the same. I stoop and stuff until my pockets bulge. Full of shiny conkers. Forty six.
And still some part of me is convinced that popularity lies this way.
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Rachel Canwell is writing to remind herself she can.
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