Some towns never really let you go. Bracknell is one of mine. I left it, returned to it, loved in it, worked in it, and lost in it.
I went for a stroll around Bracknell then like a budget Forrest Gump I kept on going – well at least for 9 miles. What propelled me beyond my normal routine was the power of reminiscing. The energy of this emotional pull was sufficient to draw me into an extraordinary experience of logging sentimental milestones that on this occasion mainly connected with my previous work.
And reminiscing matters. It’s the closest thing we have to time travel without needing plutonium or a DeLorean. It reminds you who you were, who you became, and who you might still be. It’s emotional maintenance — uncomfortable at times, but necessary.
Before we get going, a jaunty detour: Bracknell wasn’t always roundabouts, regeneration, and the architectural charm of a Soviet car park. It was one of the post war New Towns, built in the 1950s as a modern escape from London’s smog and bomb damage. The planners promised green spaces, neighbourhood units, and a brave new world of convenience. What we got was a maze of footpaths, a shopping centre that aged like milk (the new Lexicon is now like a posh latte with all of the frills), and a town that somehow managed to be both futuristic and dated at the same time. But it was ours — and for a long time, it was home.
I met and fell in love with my late wife Theresa and mother of our two children here. Lived in Harmanswater, Martins Heron, The Warren and Bullbrook. And even in the heart of the town centre when I was a rookie cop. I lived here from 1983 until 2025, left, then returned for a few weeks before moving on again.
My first stop – and the one that started this reflection – was Eagle House, The Ring – my place of refuge on nights when I was given the shitty end of the patrolling stint: town centre foot patrol. In the 80s this shopping precinct had the allure of a sewage treatment works. Once I’d checked every retail outlet by mercilessly pulling every god damned handle, I could escape the boredom by sitting on the floor behind the security desk and being lavished with hot tea by the equally bored guard.
A short hop and I was outside the former entrance to the infamous nightclub Wednesdays, where fights often spilled across the one way system and where I tried – most unsuccessfully – to woo the opposite sex. My inability to dance and master the art of the chat up line made me as sought after as Mr Bean at a swingers’ party.
Around the corner – Columbia House – where I nearly killed Bob.
Columbia Bob was the utterly charming night shift security guard who always had a grin on his weathered face. Walking up to the entrance at silly o’clock in the morning, I found him stretched out asleep on the sofa in reception. I tiptoed in, carefully tied together his bootlaces, then silently left again only to vigorously hammer on the glass door. Bob awoke with obvious fright, struggled to get upright, then promptly collapsed onto the floor, narrowly missing the edge of a coffee table with his forehead.
Past Time Square, home of Bracknell Forest Council – where I once served the constituents of Bullbrook as a Borough Councillor – to the train station: the scene of my first arrest. Two lads for the heinous crime of fare evasion. I completely fucked up the caution but since they didn’t have a clue about the correct format, I easily got away with it.
The roundabout – a stone’s throw away – was where my tutor Andy Gray told me – a wet behind the ears probationer – to tell a bunch of yobs to stop “fucking about.” Since he was a god to me, I enacted his command and shouted at the top of my voice his exact words. Every party involved in that spasm of time was equally shocked, but for different reasons.
Next time: robberies, Chevettes, The Specials, and the day I out thought a criminal by thinking like one.
© Ian Kirke 2026 & all photographs
@ iankirke.bsky.social