1994: A Bradwell village life?

Wednesday 23rd November 1994

When I was down, I went inwards and people rightly ignored me. Fiona didn’t have that luxury and eventually she found a way to let me know that all the Richard and Fiona stuff was getting to her and if I didn’t change, then she would. This Richard and Fiona stuff was evident in friends saying just how much they liked our life style and how lucky we were to be so much a couple. Our lifestyle was out of consequence, not planned. Every time we looked to do something we wanted, fate seemed to be chucking stuff back at us. Our response to this mini crisis? Believe me, it was just a mini crisis; was to look to try and move away, change jobs, avoid the problem. How it came out is partly described by the poem below. This poem was never read by her. That’s because I wrote it yesterday. There was a contemporary version, thrown away as soon as I lost the courage to show her.

1994 is better seen by my mental map of that year. I went through the diary and did the following map that puts places most visited in the largest letters. A few things stand out. Our days consisted of  Rovers, The Vaults bar in Stony Stratford, and the Prince Albert. My Mum was on her own so we combined visiting her in Windmill House residential home with a trip to a country pub near Bristol and the Rovers. Tunbridge Wells pulled us towards the South Coast and our main holiday was on the Isle of Wight because, yes, Rovers were touring there pre-season. No wonder Fiona felt a bit uncared for with that year. Stony Stratford also ranked higher as we looked at buying a “family” house there.


Diary Entry

Fiona is at school parents evening and I am writing this while wanting to tell her so many things. We are both at a pretty low place at the moment. Like everyone who is in our situation it is not easy to talk to anyone, most especially ourselves. We go on doing the normal stuff of everyday life hoping to avoid the bits that niggle. Until it comes out in a rare moment. That happened yesterday. This poem will never get to her eyes. She went for a long walk on her own. She wasn’t coming back. For a few hours she turned me inside out. Things have to change. And those bloody bells keep ringing.

A poem: Bradwell lives.

The bells of St Lawrence ring out Wednesday night

Marking, the routine of Bradwell life,

Three casual words, tuna pasta bake,

How could I say that now?

It’s not just words, it’s how I act, feel,

You make me angry,

Why can’t I make it go our way?

Don’t have an answer

So true, you don’t really want one,

Not so, but best not say,

Don’t tell me you love me, it just won’t work,

Ticking, this one will go off

Don’t talk of the reason, pray it goes away



The door shuts, she leaves

Mild panic,

What for? How long? Why now?

Go find her.

She’ll just tell me it’s too late.

Good, car on drive.

Youth Hostel, Albert, St Lawrence

River, Lodge Lake

Please, just want her to come home

God help her,

Hear footsteps on the drive

Thank You

The door shuts, she’s here




1971       Stoke H 2-4

1985       2nds Bicester A W 13-4

1996       Luton A 1-2

2002       Wrexham H 0-3

2004       Carlisle A 0-1 (a.e.t.)

2010       Charlton A 1-1

2013       Burton A 0-1

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