Alan Roger Bridgman

The Poem I wrote for the funeral is below... Proud Dad and Grandad, eighty one A loyal sister, much taller son Born in Tilford, raised in Herts Schooled St Albans, Cambridge last Eighteen months to eighty three He still had much more hair than me That man that didn’t like to hug The man who always called me ‘love’ He told me boyhood tales of seeing tanks Roar through the trees (Canadians, not Yanks) Next up were schoolboy antics with the Berts A society of mischief making, ‘splosive experts Hard work overcame this loud alliance Got him into Cambridge, to read Natural Science He loved his time he spent in Pembroke life And oft returned with friends, and sometimes, wife Fitzbillies’ Chelsea Buns, punting down the Cam An expedition to Columbia, and very occasionally — an exam His love for photography started here As well as travel, wine, and beer So Alan Roger, Cambridge Grad Explorer, campaigner, photo mad Met my mum / got married / and then me Joining IBM in between Homes in Yorkshire, Switzerland and Chorleywood Work trips from Texas to Toronto, because well, he could At home his interests started to be mine England Rugby, The Goons, photography, and later, wine Computers became a hobby soon enough Micro Model B and bits of IBM techy stuff. And when dad and mum split up, and moved We built a darkroom in the spare room Next came the Roman dig at Corfe Twenty years of summer excavations, committees and reports I remember crab sandwiches at The Fox and thinking what was the point? of all these little bits of pots About that time he found his Stratford home — Albany was 30 years his neighbourhood, his parking zone In Stratford he met Gill, his wife to be and together travelled, from sea to sea They bought a narrowboat, and cruised the locks Pubs in summer, freeze in winter, even with the warmest socks Grandkids came, enchanted him and grew up fast A proud grandad, part of a bigger family at last So Alan Bridgman, friend and colleague, grandad, dad and brother Your passing makes us feel the space where your connection was between each other But you lived your life and well used your time with determination, zest, and often, wine A silly card, a haughty shrug, cartoons, Ken Dodd. You packed it in, you silly sod. The man that didn’t like to hug Whose last words to me were ‘Thank you love’