For about six years until 1993, I lived in Windsor. The pleasant Berkshire town is famous for one thing – an enormous, sprawling castle. Established in the 11th century shortly after the nasty Normans conquered Anglo-Saxon England, the castle has a commanding position overlooking the River Thames, guarding the western approaches to London and dominating the town that grew around it from virtually every angle. The vast pile has been a royal residence for most of its millennium-long history, projecting muscular power and proclaiming who’s the daddy now?

Although I’d often wander around the castle grounds back in the day, I never once ventured inside for a nose about. ‘Let’s go, then,’ said Liam. Sure, I thought, better late than never. Besides, I fancied a mince down memory lane and a chance to show Liam my old manor. So off we went.

First up was a short walk away from the town centre to a terraced house on Albert Street which I once shared with a man with a cloney moustache, drop-yer-knickers eyes and a naughty, licentious grin. We’re still friends – in a Faceache kinda way. Every Englishmen’s home is his castle, so they say, though ours was a bit smaller than the big one up on the hill. The street has changed little in the 31 years since I was in residence, except our old gaff is now a different colour and has replacement windows and a new front door.

After the photoshoot we retired to the pub round the corner for a wine-fuelled memory-rich chat. I recalled the time when I’d been out on the lash with some fellow bean counters from work and got back late. It was November 1992. As I staggered out of the train station, I saw flames rising above the castle, lighting up the night sky. Being three sheets to the wind, I thought I was imagining it. But no, the castle really was on fire. The blaze destroyed nine of the principal state rooms and damaged countless others.

After the dose of nostalgia, we wandered back into town for cocktails by the river. And these husbands got very merry indeed.