Monday, February 27, 2006

Goodbye to the 1980s

This is how we all dressed when I was last at large, back in the eighties. It was a very shiny decade.
I suppose my old clothes will all have to go, when I do eventually step back into society. I haven't seen them, or it, since I was aged twenty, and I don't suppose they'd flatter a forty year old anyway.
That's one good thing about being inside, all the choices you don't have to make. In here we all share the same tailor and eat at the same restaurant.
One of the few ways a man can maintain his sense of individuality in prison is through his choice of toiletries.

Quid Pro Quo at Reed's

Nearby Reed's public school has been canvassing among the inmates in case anyone has children of enrollment age. Over the years a symbiotic relationship has evolved between the two establishments, with the families of white-collar criminals finding Reed's very flexible about accepting large sums of cash and the inmates enjoying their annual trip to the school, where they help erect the marquee and presentation stand on Sports Day.
My cell-mate Simon is actually an old Reedonian himself, which may explain his calm reserve when faced with the petty bureaucracy of the prison system.

Room to Swing a Cat

Here's our cell, with lovely spring Sunlight pouring in. You can see Simon's picnic freezer-box there. He never let's it out of his sight, for fear of thieves.
Our cell is actually a lot larger than this picture makes it look. There's plenty of space for the two of us and we're even thinking about asking permission to install an aquarium. We're not officially allowed to keep pets in our cells but there's some debate as to whether fish can be called 'pets'. The whole thing hinges on emotion. In an emergency, you'd make an effort to save a dog, whereas you wouldn't hesitate to flush a fish down the toilet.

Sunday, February 26, 2006

Hobson's Choice

This week I have a tough decision to make. I'm the secretary of G.Wing's Social Events Calendar Committee and this year, we've been offered the choice between two American guest speakers.
On the one hand, we could have Deborah Lipstadt over, giving a talk about the horrors of the Nazi death camps, which is the kind of thing that would be raptly received by a lot of the fellows in here. The other option is to accept the very generous offer Mariana Trump has made, to visit some of the U.K's prisons giving inspirational workshops and sharing gossipy anecdotes about her glamorous jet-setting life with her husband Donald.
Do I choose what would be good for the men? Or simply what they would enjoy most?

Tempus Fugit


This morning I was visited by this little hen sparrow. She came and rested near my window and I was able to feed her with some crumbs from Simon's lunch. I'm not going to let myself get too attached to her or it'll just be all the harder to say goodbye. Two more years and I'm back on the street. Sparrows are just vermin anyway.


little bird, please don't wait for me

A Captive Audience

This young man's name is Julian Thomlinson. He's a film student and writer. He also happens to be our Governor's nephew, which is why all this week we've been forced to endure his atrocious experimental films. Each evening, usually right in the middle of something we're all watching, the screen would suddenly change and we'd be confronted with something different altogether. Even the screws have been sympathetic to our plight, though they've also been ordered to keep us in our seats, so as not to upset the sneering little poser. His films even have rubbish titles. 'All Pixies Must Die' my arse! Why don't these
people just get proper jobs and stop wasting everyone's time?

A Slippery Fish

This is my cell-mate, Simon 'the fish' Johnson. We're not allowed to post actual photos of ourselves, so this is the best I could do. It's the original police photofit of him and I must say it does him no favours. It's a miracle they caught him at all, based on this.