I am awakened late on Sunday morning by the sound of rain on the roof, and the pain in my head. My final memory of the previous evening is of the oldest one coming downstairs to tell my wife and me to be quiet. Actually, I don’t even remember that much until I discover two half glasses of wine sitting on the kitchen table, abandoned when we were more or less sent to bed. I pour them down the sink, make coffee and sit. The cat jumps on to the table.

“Miaow,” it says.

“There is no cat food,” I say.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Yes, there is dog food,” I say. “But you can’t have any.”

“Miaow,” it says.

“Get off!” says my wife, walking in behind me and shooing the cat off the table. We stare into the garden at the rain for a minute.

“He came down and told us to be quiet,” I say.

“The cheek of it,” my wife says. “Shall we have brunch?”

“It depends on what you mean by brunch,” I say.

“I mean breakfast, at lunchtime, with beer,” she says.

“In that case, yes,” I say.

The oldest one walks in a few minutes later.

“There he is,” I say.

“You telling us to shut up,” my wife says. “The irony.”

“It was half past one,” the oldest one says. “And you were making a lot of noise.”

“We were debriefing after a party,” I say. “About how much fun we were.”

“You woke me up,” he says. “I just asked you to shut the door.”

“How the tables have turned,” my wife says.

“It’s important to compare notes,” I say, “so we can be even more fun next time.”

The youngest one appears and we sit down to eat brunch. The conversation veers from topic to topic as my wife bans each in turn: no politics, no sport, no describing things one has seen on YouTube.

“What are we supposed to talk about?” the youngest says. The oldest turns to me. “Do you know about the Battle of Turnham Green?”

I pause to refill my glass with beer.

“Yes,” I say.

“No, he doesn’t,” my wife says.

“I do,” I say. “It was a famous battle that took place not far from here, in Turnham Green.”

“I was reading about it the other day,” the oldest one says.

“Look at his face,” my wife says. “He doesn’t even know which war you’re talking about.”

“If I were to visit that historic site today,” I say, “I would take the E3 bus.”

The oldest goes on to describe the battle, a standoff that ended in a mutual retreat once the fighting season ended, but was nonetheless decisive: the Parliamentarians held their ground; the Royalists never got closer to London. Oh my God, I think – the tables really have turned. It seems important to ask an intelligent question.

“Why were they called Roundheads?” I say. “All heads are basically round.” I look up to find everyone staring at me.

“It’s because of their helmets,” the oldest says.

“That’s, like, lesson one,” the middle one says.

“Durhh,” the youngest one says.

“I told you,” my wife says. “He knows nothing.”

“I come from a different country,” I say. “A country founded by people who left this land, so they could be free to practise religious intolerance.”

“You’re all clearing up, by the way,” my wife says.

“Please excuse me,” I say, standing up with my plate. “I need to go to my office to do some work.” I stomp across the wet grass to my shed, where I spend a half hour researching the Battle of Turnham Green, occasionally glancing back towards the bright windows of the house. The kitchen is empty by the time I find out that the Roundheads were so called because of their close-cropped hair, and that contrary to popular belief the distinctive pot helmets of the day were worn by both sides.