All this talk of friendly corridors and nasty corridors leads rather nicely into my next trick.
For a while ago I paid a princely sum to be taken around Wolsey’s folly, Henry VIII’s old stomping ground, his love shack, Catherine Howard’s undoing: the little royal village by the Thames, Hampton Court.
And last night, as the sun was setting, my friends and I rolled up in the Historic Royal Car Park and parked the old Merc.
The light of early march is strange at best, the sunlight a pale peach wash. And the temperature was already falling there, next to the Thames, as we walked to the West Front of Hampton Court.
And at that time, just before six on a Saturday evening, everyone was somewhere else. The good people of Molesey, Surrey were returning from hectic shopping trips to make their tea, or propping up the bar in local…
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