Jonathan Self muses on the abandoned, forgotten and mislaid objects which dot his surrounds.
On one of my regular walks, I pass a ruined tower house that bizarrely, although windowless, still has a solid oak door. It is my occasional habit (I concede it is a little eccentric, but it brings me pleasure) to stop and, having checked that I am alone, recite a few lines from The Listeners, complete with knocking and smoting. Anyway, yesterday, I had just got to: ‘And a…
