There is one Christmas story from when my father first arrived in the UK, 43 years ago, that can still make me howl with laughter. It was a cold winter and my dad had been gripped by the idea of roasting chestnuts. He had grown up in the southern hemisphere, in a former British colony, so despite the fact that his Christmases were hot – spent in shorts and flip-flops – he had been surrounded by images of snowy churches, robin redbreasts, holly, ivy and, yes, chestnuts roasting on an open fire.
And so, he headed out to Clapham Common in south London to collect conkers. They were chestnuts, after all. Horse chestnuts but hey, that’s still a chestnut. Or so he thought.
Continue Reading on The Guardian
This preview shows approximately 15% of the article. Read the full story on the publisher's website to support quality journalism.