Ben Machell tries his hand as a Hampton Court tour guide

Every weekend, ever since spring, I’ve been agitating to go to Hampton Court Palace.

I’m not totally sure why. Fleeting notions occasionally become concrete ambitions which, in turn, can develop into odd obsessions if allowed to fester unfulfilled over the course of a long, hot summer. Forcing my young family to spend a day admiring a Tudor pile became one such obsession. Last weekend, I was finally granted my wish. ‘History!’ I told my children as I strapped them into their car seats. ‘We’re going to learn about history!’

It was actually quite far away. Far away from Hackney, anyway. As we trundled over the Westway, through Shepherd’s Bush then Acton, I tried to give my girlfriend directions but she seemed to know exactly where she was going. ‘It’s okay,’ she explained, breezily. ‘I used to have a boyfriend from Barnes. I’d drive this way all the time.’ Oh. Oh right. Barnes, eh? Barnes is it? I glowered out the passenger window and tried to find reasons to be disparaging about Barnes. But to be totally honest, it looked lovely.

We arrived and began to explore. Because I’d read Wolf Hall and because I also fundamentally really enjoy the sound of my own voice, I appointed myself tour guide, holding forth on Henry VIII. The problem was that, within about three minutes, I was having to explain the concepts of execution, beheading and, to a lesser extent, the Church of England to a pair of nursery school children. ‘Why did he chop his wives’ heads off, daddy?’ ‘Um, because he was a very jealous man,’ I told them. ‘It’s silly to be jealous,’ my girlfriend added. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Very silly.’

I dropped the tour-guide schtick. Instead, to lighten the mood, we amused ourselves sniggering at old portraits of Tudors, with their beady little eyes and pallid, gormless expressions. Better still were the palace kitchens. There was a guy in full 16th-century dress, sitting by an open fire roasting joints of beef on a spit. Jesus, I thought. What a job. The sheer level of respect he commanded from the whole room was palpable, retired English Heritage members swarming him like groupies. How do you even get a job like that, I silently wondered? ‘That’s going to be you in 20 years’ time,’ my girlfriend whispered. I smiled at the very thought. If I play my cards right, you never know.