My son is a collector. Doesn’t matter much what the object is, but were you to drop in at our place on any given day you would find small collections stashed in tins, on plates and in plastic bags. Vacated snail shells. Pebbles. Old business cards. Once, he collected a pile of broad bean husks and we didn’t find his hidey hole until months later, mould and all! But his all-time favourite is acorns. Every trip to the park sees him return home with fistfuls of acorns, pockets bulging with the things (although he insists they are coconuts). Recently, we planted some. We explained that from the unassuming little orb buried in a pot of dirt would sprout a tree – a grand and towering oak tree with strong sprawling branches and a height that would dwarf even daddy! Did he understand?  No.  He was still looking at the acorn nestled in his palm. He liked the acorn, he could appreciate the acorn but he couldn’t truly grasp its potential. In a few short days we …