Traditionally follies are a rich man's foible. But mine are modest. There are only three. Two large ones and a small one, which houses my ferrets. We had Vietnamese pot-bellied pigs living in the largest folly once, until the neighbours complained about the noise. The pigs moved out.
I know follies are meant to symbolise waste or hubris: the very word 'folly' suggests foolhardiness. Still, the whole point of a folly is that it has no point. Actually, even that isn't strictly true. Follies were often part of a gardening politic, an artistic yearning for an Arcadia, a three-dimensonial expression of the age.
There's something heroic about them. They have humanity, humour and intimacy. I see people walking past and staring - their imaginations are stimulated.
Yes, there's another folly in the making. A triumphal arch. Though I'm not quite sure what I'm celebrating.
Nigel Finch is co-editor of BBC2's 'Arena'Reuse content