Monthly Archives: June 2009

Porridge Part 7

Porridge Part 7

I was having a lunchtime kip one afternoon midway through the media course to sleep off a migraine when there came a knock to my door.  I’ve suffered with migraines since my 13th birthday, usually at times of stress, and though I was pretty relaxed most of the time in prison the general situation of being incarcerated probably isn’t one you can be completely relaxed about.  The knock was an officer telling me I had to pack my stuff up for I was being moved to D Wing.  Hurrah!  This was something of a surprise, although I’d heard a rumour that I was high up the list as far as I knew I wasn’t yet eligible, but I wasn’t going to argue.  Eligibility to be moved to a resettlement unit, which is what D Wing was, is usually at the quarter point of your sentence, although this only counts if you have less than 2 years (I think) left until the halfway point of your sentence at which time most prisoners expect to go home.  Or at least hope to.  The quarter point of my sentence wasn’t for a full 2 months after I moved to D Wing but from what I gather there was something of a lack of prisoners suitable for resettlement at the time.  They were all far too naughty.  The thing is, resettlement isn’t just about living in the place where you’re not locked up any more, have the key to your own room and have an ensuite shower.  It’s so much more than this.  Because if you live on D Wing the chances are you’ll be allowed back out in society before you go home.  Exciting stuff.

Amazingly (or not) the migraine was soon forgotten and I started the usual rigmarole of taking my photos off the wall and cleaning up the sodding toothpasty mess.  It really is annoying.  I packed my stuff up into the three, yes three HM Prison Service bags it now required to contain all of my stuff.  So much bloody stuff.  And what was worse was that no bugger was around to help me move it all so I had to make three trips, each time dragging it a bit, resting it on my hip a bit, trying to haul it over my shoulder a bit.  I looked a right tit.  Eventually I made it.  At which point I realised it was canteen day and I’d have to go back and collect that.  So I stood outside B Wing, now locked, shouting “Officer….Officer…..OFFICERRRRRRRR” to attract someone’s attention.  The gate is at one end of the wing, the office is at the other.  Rubbish.  At least my canteen didn’t weigh a ton when I eventually got it, in spite of the fact I’d bought loads of chocolate.  The canteen’s a funny thing.  When I first got to prison someone mentioned it and I thought it was an actual shop you go to.  Not so.  When they’d stopped laughing at me for being an idiot they explained that you get a list of items you can buy and once a week you submit a form with what you want on it.  You then collect it a couple of days later.  Simples.  You’re limited to how much money you can spend each week: usually your wages plus a limited amount from the money that people have sent into you, if you’re lucky enough to know nice people that would do that.  I have a lovely generous family and lovely generous friends so I always had money in my account.  The amount you get from that account depends on whether you’re a standard prisoner or an enhanced one, i.e. a naughty person or a really good one.  I was, of course, a model prisoner and if I hadn’t been there’s no way they’d have been sending me to D Wing.  You can buy all sorts of stuff on the canteen: stationery, stamps, toiletries, tobacco, chocolate, crisps, cake, sweets, drinks etc.  No alcohol or narcotics though.  Most of my money was spent on phone credit so I could ring the boys every day and chocolate.  Lovely lovely chocolate.

So, I got to D Wing and moved my stuff in to my lovely new sunny room overlooking the birds of prey.  Hmmmm, I hadn’t realised how screechy they were.  Shhhhh birds of prey, you noisy bastards.  Someone else from the media course was moving into the room opposite me as well.  I didn’t like her much, she seemed a bit up herself although that was largely because of her infamy.  And further than that I can say no more.  But what’s this?  Could she have some of my chocolate?  Erm…I suppose so.  Cheeky bitch!  That seemed like a suitable time to shut the door before the rest of my canteen did a disappearing act.  While I mourned the loss of my mars bar I had a cup of tea, rearranged the room and toothpasted my pictures to the wall AGAIN.  This was the fourth time I’d moved in 6 months, I really didn’t want to have to do it again.  I looked around, and said “yay!” to myself.  I was ridiculously excited about this.  I rang my mum to tell her how brilliant it was.  I think she was a bit bewildered.  Then I rang the kids, they were definitely bewildered.  “But I’ve got MY OWN SHOWER!!!!” I protested.  Oh well, maybe I was being a bit over the top about it.  But there would be no more baths behind a shower curtain fearful that some pillock wouldn’t notice the flip flops I deliberately left poking out underneath it or the loud splashing I was doing and walk in on me.  That did happen once.  I was not pleased.

Back to the media course the next day and I was surprised to find that some people were funny about the fact I’d made it to D Wing.  Not my friends, though, they were as pleased as me.  Some people are just odd and jealousy is an ugly thing.  I didn’t care.  I was on D Wing.  I had my own bathroom.  And birds of prey.  Screechy harris hawks and a poxy eagle owl that goes “hoooooo” half the night.  But I had a bathroom, my very own bathroom, did I mention that?

Around this time the company that ran our course started talking about job opportunities they had planned for when the course was finished.  We were the first group to take part and although there would be new students when we had finished they also wanted some of us to stay on and work there making programmes for the prison.  The idea was that this would be rolled out as in-cell TV for anyone that wanted to watch it.  They also had two positions available for production assistants to work in the London office on day release.  As I was near the date where I would possibly be allowed out and already resident on D Wing I applied.  I REALLY wanted to get this job.  I had already applied for my very first town visit  (a weekend day where you are allowed out until the early evening and can go anywhere within a 40 mile radius of the prison…within reason) and had also applied for a home visit, essentially a weekend at home.  If approved by the board (which comprised various governors and principal officers and considered the opinion of the probation service) I could do these things once I’d passed the quarter point of my sentence.  I was overjoyed when both the town visit and home visits were approved, I couldn’t believe my luck.  It meant I could see my children at home for a proper overnight stay rather than sitting in the visits hall.  There was an application process for the job, a form to fill in and then an interview and when I had mine I was really nervous.  There were two people from the company asking questions, one of whom was quite involved with the course and the other who we hadn’t seen as much.  But they put me at ease and I’d done enough job interviews in the past to get through it.  I thought I did OK.  Then began the waiting.  And waiting.  And more waiting.  In reality it was probably only a couple of days but it seemed like forever.  Then one morning I got in and was handed a letter. I GOT THE JOB!!!!!  WOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!  I couldn’t believe it.  I was going to work, in London as a production assistant and I was still in prison.  I was even going to get paid.  More phone calls were made only this time there was less bewilderment.  I was very, very happy.

Porridge Part 6

Porridge Part 6

I hadn’t been at Downview long before an opportunity to take part in a “Children’s Day” arose.  Places were limited but if you were lucky enough to get one you could have your children with you for almost a WHOLE day rather than the usual hour to an hour and a half that you got in a standard visit.  As far as I know they do these special visits in most prisons but at Downview it appeared they had more than others, one every couple of months.  Children would be dropped off in the visits hall by their carers, then go through the prison to the gym where lots of activities and lunch were laid on.  It was a fantastic opportunity to just be normal with your kids rather than be stuck in a chair you weren’t allowed to get up from while wearing a silly yellow sash jobbie to easily identify you in case you fancied walking out of the door when all the visitors leave.  As if it would ever cross a prisoner’s mind to try and escape.  That NEVER happens.  And it also helped to allay any fears children might have had about what prison was like because they got to see it with their own eyes.  All in all it was a big win for HMP Downview as far as I was concerned.

My kids came to three of these visits and we all had a great time.  We played rounders, basketball, jumped on the bouncy castle, and generally just enjoyed each other’s company in a much less restrictive setting.  We made scoobies (erm, lengths of plastic string knotted together to make, well, key rings and not much else).  Sort of.  I could only do one way.  We ignored some of the other people’s brats (there seemed to be a very high incidence of ADHD) and stopped ourselves from cuffing them around the ear or kicking them up the bum.  I imagine that would have been ill-advised.  There are birds of prey (owls, harris hawks and, um, possibly some other kinds) kept at Downview and on one of the visits they got them out for the children to see.  They flew one of them over us while we lay on the astroturf.  This was scary, I was afraid of either being pecked and clawed at like Tippi Hedren in The Birds or shat upon.  Mostly the latter.  Unfortunately the bird in question decided when it had finished showing off and pretending it was going to crap on people that it would try and make a bid for freedom and flew up to the gym roof.  And there it stayed for the rest of the day, flicking the birdy Vs at the keepers who were trying to tempt it down with tasty morsels like bits of chick.  Nice.

I absolutely loved the children’s visits but was always utterly paranoid that although my ex had agreed to bring the children to them he would forget and wouldn’t turn up.  But he did.  Every time.  And I’d go back to my room after they’d gone on a high which would last for ages.

These special days were relatively few and far between and most of the time there was just the standard prison routine. After only a few months of being there the gym course would be complete so I needed to find something different to do.  I toyed with the idea of gardening.  Downview’s grounds are lovely, very well kept and beautifully planted all year round and all maintained by prisoners.  I like a bit of gardening and am always very enthusiastic for the first week.  And then quickly lose interest, forget to water everything and wonder why it’s all died.  If I could learn properly maybe this would bode well for my future plants.  I didn’t fancy working in the kitchens as I didn’t want to be responsible for producing any of that high fat high carbohydrate rubbish we were subjected to every day.  I didn’t want to work with the birds of prey either as I just didn’t know if I’d enjoy chopping up frozen chicks to feed them every day.  And then one day a sign went up for a new course called PRIME or Prison Media.  Now that sounded interesting.  In the middle of the prison grounds there’s a house.  As I understand it this house used to be used for teaching prisoners practical skills such as plumbing and decorating, but that this applied more to when it was a male prison which it was before they re-rolled it as a female one.  One for females, that is, I’m not saying the prison itself has gender.  Oh, you know what I mean.  I also heard a rumour about why they stopped doing the practical courses for female inmates but I’m not going to share that in case it’s wrong.  ANYWAY.  The house which had been standing empty and unused for some time had been done up and was going to be the site of this new media course.  How exciting!

I applied for a place, had an interview and got in.  Hurrah!  It was due to start before I finished the gym course but that didn’t really matter as I already had a surfeit of wipe clean certificates and if I successfully completed it I would have a BTEC in Digital Media, equivalent to one A Level.  This one actually sounded like it wasn’t for morons.  I couldn’t believe my luck, I’d never in my wildest dreams imagined that I’d get the opportunity to do something this interesting while in prison.  On the first day the 20 new students (myself included) arrived at the house and were shown round.  It had all been decorated neutrally and was bright and really nice.  On the ground floor was an office where the project manager and the prison officer that had been assigned to the project were based, two IT suites with a computer for each of us, a classroom which doubled as a TV studio and a gallery with lots of exciting looking TV equipment.  Upstairs was a common room for the students, a couple of empty rooms and a radio studio.  This was so exciting I thought I might burst, I hadn’t expected there to be ACTUAL equipment with all complicated looking knobs on.  I suddenly felt very nervous.  I was going to have to learn how to use this stuff and it looked really hard.  We met our tutors who were based at a university in London, one of them used to be a VJ for Radio 1 apparently but I’d never heard of him.  He was American and kept referring to us as “y’all”.  I really wanted to titter behind my hand every time he did it, but I behaved.  Just.  And he was just one of many tutors who came and went to teach us different things.  What I loved about this course was that we did so many different things, mostly practical rather than theory and for a lot of it we were just thrown in at the deep end.  It was scary but exciting.  One of the first things we each did was a radio interview.  I freely admit to being terrified.  There were only two of us in the studio, myself and the interviewee but absolutely everyone else was on the other side of the glass.  Looking.  But once I got going it was fine, I’d prepared my questions and stuck to them and it went pretty well.  According to the tutor my style was “conversational” which I took as a compliment.  The bits I’d struggled with were the introduction and the wrapping up.  Not much then.  But hey, I’d never done this before.  If I’d thought radio was scary, though, imagine how it feels to be looking down the barrel of a TV camera, all thoughts miraculously gone from your head.  At first I simply couldn’t string a sentence together, most embarrassing.  And even when I had managed to say words that made sense and were in the correct order I found it excruciating to watch myself back.  I absolutely loved it and despite the terror I felt every time I did it I made sure I volunteered to do the presenting every time we made a TV show.  I even created a character called Fifi la Bouffant, a snotty film critic.  Nothing like me at all, guvnor.

TV and radio weren’t all we did.  A lot of our work was computer based and ranged from creating magazine style pages to websites.  We learned to create simple animations, how to write screen plays and, my absolute favourite, video editing.  I loved the precision of it, I’d never done anything like it before and it really appealed to me.  We were assessed on each different area of the course and I was delighted to get a distinction for every assessment I did.  Not that I’m bragging.  OK, I am.  But I was so chuffed, here I was doing a course I really enjoyed AND I was good at it.  And I was in prison!  Pinch me, cos I just don’t believe this is happening.  For the final project we had to choose a subject and produce something from each element of the course.  The main part had to be a multi page website and it needed to include a film, interviews, information, all sorts.  I was nominated as the leader of my group and we decided to do diet and exercise in prison as our subject as this was something I was very interested in.  Being the leader of the team also meant, in their eyes, that I had to be the spokeswoman too.  Bastards, I really am not a fan of public speaking, especially in front of people I know.  But I did it.  And it was…OK.  Our project was a success, we interviewed a gym instructor on camera, hilarious because he kept really playing up to it, we filmed a body pump class (very badly, I may be good at some things but I am a crap director), we did lots of research about healthy eating, and one of the girls even created a flash animation of how to correctly do various exercises.  Even if I say so myself it was a really good project, I was very pleased with it.  And overall I passed the course with a distinction.  Happy days.

Porridge Part 5

Porridge Part 5

With Christmas and induction over normal life resumed.  Well, it wasn’t normal at all, but the standard routine was back.  This was a good thing, it involved much less bang up.  I’d signed up for the gym course so started going to that every day.  At first this involved a great deal of sitting around because the previous course hadn’t quite finished, but all of the exercise equipment was available to us and the gym was very well equipped so I would spend my time alternating between reading and running/cross training/rowing/cycling.  Even though I hate rowing and don’t particularly like exercise bikes.  I could have spent my whole time exercising if I’d wanted to but since we were in the gym for several hours a day I would have run a serious risk of doing far too much and ending up looking like a skeleton with skin on.  Just like those women of a certain age you see in the gym, who I think look terrible.  They’re orange too.  As it was I did get pretty slim.  Skinny if you prefer, but still with great big boobs.  Very odd.  I felt good though, and over time it really improved my confidence.  A friend of mine said afterwards that I looked “athletic”.  I really like her.  And as I’m talking in the past tense I’m sure you’ve gathered that I’m not perhaps quite as slim as I was then, though I’m working on it.  I’m not bitter but pregnancy is not my friend.

Although I’d started the gym course at the previous prison we hadn’t got very far with it so starting again from scratch wasn’t a problem.  The one at Downview seemed to be more comprehensive, offering various different skills and a fair few different qualifications.  I really enjoyed it although I was ridiculously nervous every time there was an assessment and I had to demonstrate how to carry out various exercises on the machines or teach something to the whole group.  I’ve never been much of a fan of role play and felt like a right plonker.  Especially as the PE instructors were fond of a bit of banter and were always ready to take the piss.  And I mean ALWAYS.  But I got through it and passed the assistant gym instructor course with flying colours and was presented with a laminated certificate.  Erm.  Why is it laminated?  What possible reason could there be to laminate a certificate?  OK, so it won’t get bent or screwed up but is there some requirement for all of your certificates to be wipe clean?  That really doesn’t bear thinking about.

I decided that all the sitting around that I needed to do so as not to be tempted to exercise all day long was getting a bit dull so thought I’d see if there was anything else I could do.  I didn’t fancy wing cleaning as I’m allergic to any kind of domesticity so took a mosey over to Education to see if they had any interesting courses that were suitable for people who weren’t morons.  I quite like the fact that I’ve implied there that you can just wander around in a carefree fashion.  What shall I do today?  Ooh, I don’t know, I think I’ll get up, wander down to breakfast, think I’ll go continental today, then I’ll pump a bit of iron in the gym then mosey on over to the library, maybe see a few people in Education.  This is, of course, rubbish.  It’s not a hotel.  It’s not even a holiday camp although if I’m honest Butlins at Bognor looks more like a prison than a prison does.  No, funnily enough the prison officers want, no NEED, to know your whereabouts at all times so if you want to take a mooch over to Education you need permission and a movement slip to prove it.  There were a number of different courses available; hairdressing (this was out as I can barely even put my own hair up in a successful ponytail, never mind anyone else’s so imagine how bad it would look if I was cutting it), basic literacy, basic maths (I think I’ve mastered these already), cooking, basic IT (I’d done internet support for years – have you turned it off and on again? – so that was pointless), art (no), some others I can’t remember and book-keeping.  I quite fancied that.  I’d started accountancy in the past and had enjoyed it but didn’t complete it because I’d timed it badly.  Number 1 son was only a few weeks old and I’d found myself nodding off in the less interesting lessons.  But no babies to wreck my sleep now, just other inmates and they were mostly quiet.  Book-keeping it was.

Even if I say so myself I’m pretty good at things like book-keeping.  My brain works in the right logical way and I found it easy.  Easier then everyone else I’d say.  Someone remarked to me that I must have been a boffin at school, like this was a bad thing.  I so nearly retorted that it was better to be a boffin and have some ambition than end up in prison until I remembered that I was in prison too.  Oops, that would have been embarrassing.  What a snob I am.  But the comment had annoyed me, there’s no shame in being good at something, no shame at all.  In fact, the only problem with the book-keeping course was the cooking smells that wafted in from the kitchen used for the cookery course.  The course took place on a Wednesday morning and that was the only day when sandwiches were served for lunch, the rest of the week saw a hot meal at lunchtime.  I was always completely dissatisfied with the sandwiches, they simply didn’t fill me up, even though had I been out in society they would have been fine.  It must have something to do with being locked behind that door at lunchtime for 2 hours, boredom causes hunger.  So delicious smells on crap lunch day were most upsetting.  Maybe I should have done cookery instead, I could have stuffed my face.  But I didn’t and just had to endure it and make do with the huge quantities of chocolate and biscuits I bought on the canteen.  More about the canteen later.  The book-keeping course was about 3 months long and at the end of that I passed and got more bizarrely laminated certificates.  Nice.

Book-keeping was just an extra and I was still taking part in the gym course at the same time.    We did badminton, volleyball, basketball, weights and a community sports course.  I absolutely hated volleyball, largely because of the group of prisoners who played it all the time, took themselves far too seriously (even though they were rubbish) and intimidated anyone that joined in, especially if they weren’t very good at it.  And the ball really bloody hurts.  I’d played volleyball at school and enjoyed it.  But I didn’t enjoy it in prison, not one bit.  I was crap at basketball too, like all girls in the UK I’d done netball at school and was taught that you absolutely categorically must not run with the ball.  And now they wanted me to.  Sod that.  I was really surprised to find that I loved weight training when I had expected to find it hard and scary.  I’ve no idea why it would be scary but I was intimidated by the idea of it nonetheless.  But that was before I discovered Body Pump and one of our instructors, happily, was a Body Pump instructor.  Body Pump just made me feel great, it’s really hard work but that coupled with all the cardiovascular exercise like running I was doing made all the difference to me.  And I loved the fact that when I first started doing it I could barely walk for a couple of days after.  I’m strange like that.  Badminton was great and a lot harder than I remembered.  It looks to be such a gentle sport, but it’s very hard work.  But even badminton wasn’t safe for me because somehow during my  assessment my bra strap became unattached and went PING noticeably.  Great.  I had to skip to the loo quickly to sort it while they all laughed at me.  Brilliant.  The gym course earned me many shiny laminated certificates.  You know, I think I still have them somewhere.

Time marched on and I’d already moved cells a couple of times.  This is quite normal, you start off on the induction wing and you’re only likely to stay there for the duration of your sentence if you get a job there as a wing cleaner or in the servery.  The vast majority of people go to C Wing which has a large number of landings, each accommodating about 40 prisoners.  I didn’t like C Wing even though it was a bit newer looking than the induction wing, A Wing.  They’re imaginatively named, aren’t they?  C wing was loud and busy and I didn’t like the atmosphere much.  Neither did I know anyone on my particular landing as all the people I’d made friends with at the start were elsewhere.  So I hid away, keeping myself to myself, avoiding all the noisy bastards and only coming out for meals and to go to the gym, library or for visits.  Luckily I didn’t have to stay there long.  I had put in a request to go to a “drug-free” wing and a space became available before long.  By drug-free what they really mean is that you do regular piss tests (such a lovely term) and if you fail them then it’s back to C Wing with you.  We all like urinating in front of relative strangers, don’t we?  But it was a means to an end, because from the drug free wing (B Wing, of course) you could progress to the ultimate prize, the privilege wing.  Yes, my friends, D Wing, the Resettlement Unit.  In my head I hear a harmonious “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh” like that we associate with angels and see D Wing lit by a single ray of light from the sun.  Perhaps that’s just me.  On D Wing there are no steel doors, there’s no bang up (although you are locked onto the landing at night).  On D Wing you have the key to your room and your own private shower.  On D Wing you don’t have to eat in the same room as a toilet.  It’s like a teeny tiny hotel room.  But D Wing was for the privileged few and I didn’t know if I’d ever make it.

So, in the mean time I had to make do with B Wing.  Nonetheless I liked it there.  There were good officers on that wing, I had friends there and we had an evening ritual of Scrabble or card playing.  One night we played hide and seek.  It was hysterical because there was nowhere to hide.  I still have visions of my friend trying to squeeze herself under the pool table.  Hilarious.  Quite early on during my time at Downview I had decided to become a Listener, essentially a prison Samaritan.  We were available day and night to go and see people if they were feeling depressed or felt they needed someone to talk to.  We weren’t allowed to offer advice, just listen.  I’d joined up because I’d been inspired by the chaplain who’d listened to me when I first got there and was feeling upset about being moved when I was.  She’d made me feel so much better and I hoped I could do the same for others.  We weren’t called out very often but regularly enough to justify our existence.  Other people joined up because we had a weekly meeting and the Samaritans that ran the initiative always brought in biscuits.  Very cynical.  I remember coming back to my room one night after a meeting and was surprised to see that only two of my friends were sitting out in the association area.  I got to my door and was a wee bit suspicious that my light was off when I was sure I’d left it turned on.  I opened the door, switched on the light and 4 people jumped out at me, one from behind the shower curtain, one from behind the wardrobe door, one from under the bed and the other had squeezed herself in the tiny space behind the wardrobe.  Bastards!  When we’d all stopped laughing we noticed that the girl that had been under the bed had some hair stuck to her (I told you I’m allergic to domesticity and I hadn’t swept the floor for a couple of days) and it looked just like a merkin.  It couldn’t have attached itself to a better place.

Porridge Part 4

Porridge Part 4

The day of moving arrived. Over the weekend I’d come to terms with the fact that my visit with the children would have to be postponed. I was learning to accept the things I couldn’t change, there really was nothing else I could do. Was I growing as a person? No, probably not. After all, I might be more accepting of things but I was still bitter as all hell. I packed up my stuff into my lovely HM Prison Service see through bag. Hmmm, it weighed a ton. In a few short weeks I’d already been sent enough stuff to make moving somewhat tricky and this is despite the fact that there are limits to how much stuff you can actually have. I also discovered that while cheap chalky toothpaste makes an excellent alternative to blu tak it also makes a bloody awful mess when you take stuff down. If they haven’t already fallen down, that is. After about an hour of serious dried toothpaste sweeping I was ready to go.

I dragged my bag to reception, approximately an 8 mile walk when you’re carrying a dead weight. I was glad I wasn’t a serial killer as I definitely lack the strength for regular body shifting. Those of us that were moving were shown into a holding cell large enough for several people and waited. After a while some more people joined us and I was relieved to see that one of my friends was among them and that she was going to Downview too. We sat and we waited and sat and waited some more. In prison the only place you’re allowed to smoke is in your room or outside, you’re not allowed to smoke in any communal areas and definitely not in the holding cells. So, what’s this? Some very naughty people, including my friend, were passing a sneaky fag around. Knowing my luck they’d get caught just as it was being passed by me and I’ll be implicated too. Did I say anything? What do you think? Fortunately no-one came in and it looked like they’d got away with it.

Then it was time to go. The four of us that were going to Downview were called first as our sweatbox was ready. But we couldn’t go before we’d had the obligatory strip search. Now, I haven’t mentioned these before but they are a regular occurrence when your liberty’s been taken away. Not one ounce of dignity remains for those languishing at Her Majesty’s pleasure. And there are many occasions where a strip search may be necessary: when you first get to a prison, when you’re leaving a prison to go to another, when you have your room “spun” (searched), if you have to do a drug test (or piss test as we lovingly referred to them), if you need the toilet mid-visit, if it’s a Tuesday. You get the picture. It could be worse, though. There is no snapping of rubber gloves and “Bend over”. It’s a simple case of taking your top half off then putting it back on again and then doing the same with the bottom half. Still not nice though.

Into the sweatbox we went. Having learnt from my first experience I wasn’t wearing my coat. In fact if I could have got away with it I’d have been wearing a bikini and sipping a margarita. Margaritas aren’t prison issue sadly. And off we lumbered. Sweatboxes aren’t built for speed. Now, according to Google Maps the journey from Ashford in Middlesex to Sutton in Surrey is approximately 20 miles, depending on the route you take, and should take no more than 50 minutes. If this is the case then we must have taken the scenic route. Via Aberdeen. We arrived around lunchtime, and it took forever to get through the series of gates. Open one gate. Drive through. Stop. Close the gate. Open the one in front. Drive through. Stop. Close the gate. And repeat. And again. And again. It was like going through canal locks only slower. And more boring. Until finally we’d travelled the 20 feet from the first gate and were allowed out and into the reception area. Not the most inspiring of places. Somewhat…tired. I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like this place, not after the shiny newness of Bronzefield. Oh dear.

On the plus side, however, Downview is run by the Prison Service. This is a good thing. I’d come to realise that private prisons might not be the best run. The staff didn’t appear to know what they were doing, and while some of the officers were friendly, sympathetic and compassionate the rest were rottweilers who took themselves far too seriously and loved the authority. Give them a tiny bit of power and they go crazy. Right from arrival at Downview they seemed better organised. And their uniforms were nicer too. Oh dear, my friend was given an IEP (a sort of warning given for rule breaking) for smoking in the holding cell. They’d brought that all the way from Bronzefield and she thought she’d got away with it!

It’s not a case of turning up in prison and going straight to your cell. There’s a hell of a lot of admin to get through and most of it involves your property. Everything I had brought with me had to be gone through and listed, by hand onto a property card. Everything. The longer you stay in prison the more crap you accumulate and the more annoying this process becomes. This being relatively early in my sentence I guess it could have been worse but seemed to take an age. At least they were doing two of us at a time. Eventually it was over and I was shown to my new home. Dear God. Could this place have been more depressing? I suspect not. After being spoilt by shiny newness NOW I felt like I was really in prison. The walls were painted in shiny institution paint like we had at school. A dull sort of yellow. Unlike the bed at Bronzefield which was attached to the wall the one here was free standing, as was the wardrobe which had a door and everything. There was a desk with a TV on and a locker to keep your valuable possessions. I’m trying to think of something valuable I might have had but can’t. People kept their “burn” (tobacco) in them as I recall. The toilet wasn’t screened from the rest of the room like it had been at the other place apart from a manky shower curtain that supposedly protected your modesty. The mattress on the bed was strangely hard and after prolonged periods of sitting or lying on it you’d sort of sink into it. Most odd. The pillow wasn’t a pillow at all, it was a breezeblock. I get sore ears lying on normal pillows though I have no idea why so there was no way I was going to be using a bloody breezeblock. I stuffed my dressing gown into the pillow case instead. This room was shabby. Not shabby chic. Just shabby.

I was feeling pretty low and thought I was going to hate this place and I was stuck here until the end of my sentence. Who knew how long that would be? I’d heard of the possibility of tagging but that seemed unlikely and I had no idea if I’d be able to cope for another 17 months in such a dump. As I was unpacking my stuff I had a visit from one of the prison chaplains. I was expecting to hear all about how God could help me and some bollocks about letting Him into my heart and my sins would be forgiven so I was very polite and said I was sorry but I wasn’t at all religious. Translation: Please fuck off. Only she didn’t fuck off and instead said that she wasn’t there to talk about religion at all but was just there if I needed someone to talk to or a shoulder to cry on. She was so lovely and kind that I found myself pouring out the whole sorry tale of how I’d been moved there and I didn’t want to be and I was missing seeing my kids because of it. I was snivelling and probably not making much sense but she listened to me, hardly saying anything and let me get it all out. And when I ran out of steam I actually felt better. Wow, she was good.

We had to endure another very boring induction but because it was Christmas time it was spread out over a longer period. A lot of time was spent locked up because if you’re doing induction you can’t work yet and if you don’t work you don’t get to come out and play much. But TV and books pass the time. And when we were allowed out we played pool and chatted and, actually, had a right laugh. I made more new friends and started to settle in pretty quickly despite my initial misgivings. Most of the other prisoners were nice people, and the ones to avoid were screamingly obvious. After a couple of days of being there, there was a big Christmas lunch held in the gym hall. The whole prison was there and all the food, a three course meal, was handed out by the officers and even the governors. It amused me for some reason that I was given my cheesecake by the principal governor. Check me out. But what it did show to me was that here a great deal more consideration was given to the welfare of their charges by the staff and governors. They didn’t have to lay this big “gathering” on but they did, and it made us feel almost normal for a couple of hours. That’s worth a great deal for people who aren’t feeling much hope. They did other things too for Christmas, a silly quiz on the wing and a pool competition. I came second and won £5 worth of phone credit, a veritable fortune. But best of all I got to see my boys just before Christmas. I was a little emotional when I first saw them but soon pulled myself together and was able to put them at ease while my ex’s sister asked me questions like “what’s everyone else in for?” It had taken me a little while but I came to realise I was going to be all right.

Porridge Part 3

Porridge Part 3

Just before I begin, my friend Mark insists he wasn’t going to cry when he came to visit me. This is a lie. He also wishes me to point out that he gave me a nice hug. There you go, Mark, you big girl.

Righty then. Induction. We have inductions for lots of different reasons, when we get a new job, when we join a gym, and apparently also when we go to prison. Not so we don’t hurt ourselves when we do tricep dips on our prison bed but so that we know all about the smooth running and most importantly the rules of the Big House. At Bronzefield the induction process was a week or two long and very, very dull. First stop the chapel where they told us some stuff about….something…prisony, maybe the privilege system. I can’t remember, that’s how interesting it was. I think I had to fill in some forms. They talked to us about prison jobs like wing cleaning, working in the kitchens, servery or the laundry, all good menial stuff. Or you could do “education”. There were a variety of highbrow courses available, English and Maths for morons, Basic IT for morons, and a gym course. Bingo! I’d already decided as soon as a custodial sentence looked likely that I would use my time wisely and, not knowing much or indeed anything about prison, for me that meant getting fit in the gym and reading lots of lovely books. While I was on bail, you see, I hadn’t bothered my arse about staying fit at all, as a rule I like to run, but thought it made more sense to eat, drink and be merry like there was no tomorrow. Just in case there really was no tomorrow. Which there wasn’t. So the fact I could get fit AND get a basic gym instructor’s qualification was marvellous news.

Another part of the induction process involved seeing a doctor to make sure you’re healthy. And for the 99% of women who’ve said they’re pregnant because they thought it would stop them getting a custodial sentence (I’d like to point out that I was not among their number) to have their pregnancies confirmed or otherwise. It’s somewhat pointless to do that these days anyway because several women’s prisons have mother and baby units, Bronzefield included. The Healthcare* area of the prison was in the main building where the kitchens, Education, gym, segregation unit (aka the Block) and Admin were all situated. And it was while visiting Healthcare that I saw my first ever methadone queue. It was not a pretty sight. I’ve mentioned my naivety previously but I’m not sure I emphasized enough quite how far this goes. I’ve never taken drugs, I’ve never even smoked normal cigarettes apart from trying them once or twice when I was 16. I didn’t like it. I do like booze but have never been in the habit of getting so blind drunk I haven’t got a clue what I’m doing. Oh well, maybe once or twice. I’ve had friends who have smoked pot, know of people who’ve taken things like ecstasy or acid, but have never seen it with my own eyes. And I’d never known of anyone who’d taken anything harder. But the methadone queue! I was deeply shocked. They looked DREADFUL. Drawn, pale, painfully thin, but with weird pot bellies, not pregnancies thankfully but apparently the result of going from eating nothing to three square meals a day. And their teeth! Where the fuck were most of their teeth? I hadn’t known losing your teeth was an outcome of serious drug abuse. I knew nothing about drugs. In fact even now I’m pretty clueless. I made a mental note not to make friends with anyone in the methadone queue.

When I saw the doctor, although I most definitely wasn’t pregnant, I did have a dirty secret to impart. I had head lice. I had caught them from no. 1 son. Bad no.1 son. In normal society head lice is not a big deal, your head gets a bit itchy, you realise the little buggers have been biting your head and neck and when you’ve stopped shuddering you go to Boots and buy a comb and some smelly insecticide. Job done. It’s not like that in prison. People have a really odd attitude to it. It’s like it’s the most disgusting thing ever to happen to someone. They’re less bothered about some skank who fails to wash than a clean person who has a few bugs setting up home on their bonce. I was terrified of getting found out. I knew I had it but I could tell no-one and neither could I risk scratching in public areas. That sounds really rude. I mean scratching my head, put your filthy minds away. Thankfully the doctor prescribed me some Full Marks or similar and I was able to get it back to my room without anyone seeing. But not before I’d had to live with it for 2 whole weeks, all the time knowing it was there and all the time desperately keeping it from everyone else. Yes, prison healthcare is rubbish.

After the induction process was over, normal prison routine began. Every week day is the same, you’re unlocked, you have breakfast, you go to work or education, you have lunch, get locked up for a while, go back to work, come back for dinner, have open association (i.e. you can hang about in the communal area) until 8 then are locked up for the night. You can choose not to work at all but if you don’t you’ll spend the whole day locked behind your door and won’t get to earn the princely sum of £10 a week or slightly more for some jobs. There are several roll checks in between times and the next day you get up and do it all again. Amazingly it makes the time fly. Weekends are different in that you’re locked up for the night much earlier, and unless you work in the kitchens as a wing cleaner or on the servery you don’t have to go to work.

10 days into my sentence it was my 30th birthday. I was feeling a little bit depressed, this wasn’t how I’d imagined it would be. Not in my wildest dreams or nightmares. But it was OK, in fact it was as good as it could be. A few days after I arrived at Bronzefield I started receiving letters from friends and family. At first they were a bit, I don’t know, negative I suppose, sort of “I really don’t know what to say, this is awful, I hope you’re OK, try and look on the bright side etc etc.” I think they were scared that if they told me happy and nice things that were happening in their lives that this would upset me. But once I’d had the chance to write back to them and tell them that I was fine and it was all OK and to PLEASE send me happy letters, I beg you, things were greatly improved. That said, at first writing letters was somewhat difficult. I hadn’t brought a pen, the prison officers wouldn’t lend me one and all the inmates were very protective of theirs. It was one pen between 5 of us most of the time until I was able to buy my own and if you wanted it you had to prise it out of whoever had it’s fingers. You know what they say about friends, that in times of trouble you find out who your true friends are. And I did. It seems I am an excellent chooser of friends. I was overwhelmed at the support I had from them throughout, and of course from my family (that goes without saying), and the letters I received from them meant so much. It didn’t matter if they couldn’t write for long or often, it was the sentiment that really counted. I don’t think I’ve ever really properly thanked the people who went out of their way for me, writing weekly, visiting regularly, but I hope they know how much I appreciated it. But anyway, back to my birthday.

The day started quietly enough, I think we were still in the middle of induction with nothing to do on that particular day apart from watch TV and read. And then I got 2 homemade cards from my friends on the wing! I was touched. And then at lunchtime I received FIVE bouquets of flowers! FIVE! I was chuffed. I also had a stack of cards when the post was given out so all in all it was as lovely a day as it could be. I stuck my cards on the wall next to my photos with prison toothpaste (as you do in the absence of blu tak or drawing pins) and the whole room looked lovely, even with my makeshift vases made from the bottoms of soft drinks bottles. Good times.

A couple of weeks passed. People came and went. I spoke to my parents and my children on the phone on alternate days and I was getting used to the routine and realised I could survive it. I had visits with family and friends but the one I was most looking forward to was the one with my sons. My ex had agreed to allow me a monthly visit and the visiting order had been sent and the visit booked. I absolutely couldn’t wait, although I knew that on this one occasion I might struggle a bit with my emotions. Christmas was just around the corner and everyone had started making decorations and putting them up around the wings. Unrolled tampons and opened up (unused) sanitary towels make excellent fake snow. Christmas was going to be hard but not unbearable and at least I was going to see my kids before. Except I wasn’t, because on the Saturday before the boys were due to visit I got a note under my door saying that I was going to be transferred to HMP Downview. On the day the boys were coming to see me. To say I was devastated would be understating things slightly. For the first time since I’d got there I cried, really properly cried and I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be able to stop. I spoke to the staff and there was nothing they could do, I just had to accept that I wouldn’t see them.

*It’s an interesting point to note that many areas of the prison were generally referred to with a single capitalised word, Healthcare, Education etc. No idea why. Oh, and the dentist was referred to as the Butcher.

Porridge Part 2

Porridge Part 2

Where was I? Oh yes, first night in jail. How uncouth. I really didn’t know what the score was with anything, and didn’t have a clue how to find out. Luckily for me some other “ladies” (as they like to call you in prison, unless you’re a man in a men’s prison I expect) came and talked to me and told me what was happening and showed me where to get things. It seemed I needed a flask, hot water, a bag of tea, coffee and sugar, milk and a small packet of biccies. Turns out they were right. Once that door’s locked there’s not a lot to do so a nice cup of tea goes down very well indeed. But not the coffee for that looked and tasted like gravy. Bleurgh. They showed me around a bit, told me what time we would be unlocked in the morning, just before breakfast, and that was pretty much it. It surprised me that all of the useful information was coming from other prisoners, not the staff, and in fact that’s just the way it is.

An officer came and introduced himself because I was new and that was about it, it was time for roll check and bang up. And bloody Children In Need. Rubbish. Now, there were a lot of things I was unsure about. Was there a time I had to turn my TV off? Was there a lights out time? No-one had said. And would I ever be able to go to the loo again as there was a chance, a very good chance, that I would be seen? Dignity, I came to accept, was a thing of the past.

So, Children In Need it was, while I tried not to think of my own children or wonder if they knew what had happened to me yet. I’d prepared them for the worst but still, I really hoped they were OK. At about 10pm I switched the TV off and wondered to myself if it was time for lights out. I was incredibly worried that I would get into trouble for staying up past the allowed time. I didn’t want to get into trouble at all, never mind on the first day. I cocked my ear towards the door. I could hear other televisions and the odd shout out. I put Children In Need back on. God, that really is a pretty woeful piece of television. Hey, I know live TV is hard but mistimed gags from earnest celebrities are awful and the films about the people they’re helping are upsetting. I know they have to be upsetting in order to make people feel guilty and donate but, jeez, didn’t they know I had more than enough problems of my own? And how was I supposed to donate anyway?

After a while I was sufficiently bored to turn the TV off and attempt sleep. I was also still very worried about watching TV too late. I turned the light off and got into bed. Only the light was still on! Well, a slightly dimmer one. How odd. I put the telly back on. It obviously wasn’t lights out yet. But I was really tired by now so thought I’d try and sleep even with the light on. And I did manage it, but not very well. Because the bastard light stayed on all night. I hadn’t expected 18 months of having to sleep with the light on, surely that’s a breach of my human rights or something? But I supposed I’d just have to get used to it.

In the morning I made sure I was up and dressed before they unlocked my door and once they had I joined the queue for breakfast. Oooooh, fry up! Bonus. Plastic cutlery though. Although not exactly a big surprise. And the people seemed…..nice. I was a bit puzzled. Which is an awful thing to say really. Despite my non-Bad Girls watching former life I’d still gone to prison expecting to see the stereotypes. You know the ones, scary tattooed women, butch lesbians, really hard-faced old boots. And OK, there were some, but most of the people were shockingly normal. I asked about the lights and was shown a light switch on the outside of the door. Duh! If only I’d known about that before I got locked in, maybe I’d have had a better night’s sleep. At least I wouldn’t have to spend 18 months sleeping with the light on and my human rights were intact. I couldn’t work out why the swines that check you haven’t hung yourself in the middle of the night hadn’t turned it off for me. Did they think I wanted to sleep with it on? Did I look as though I was scared of the dark? Bastards.

It turns out that going to prison on a Friday is not great, because the normal routine doesn’t happen over the weekend and there’s nothing to do. You can’t start on your induction programme (where you find out what jobs you can do, go to the library, get your levels of literacy and numeracy tested etc) because they only operate that on week days, you can’t ring anyone because they haven’t sorted out your money or phone PIN number and you can’t go to the pub. So I made friends. I got chatting with some of the people and that was that. They were really nice, and really friendly. I couldn’t believe it, I’d expected to come in and be intimidated the whole time and it was nothing like that at all. I felt so much better.

On the Saturday afternoon an officer came and told me I had a visitor. This was news to me. I’d had no communication with anyone apart from a very brief phone conversation on arrival to let my parents know I’d got there. I wondered who it was, how exciting! And then they told me it was my solicitor. Awwww maaaaaaaan. What could my solicitor possibly have to say to me? But it wasn’t my solicitor at all, it was my friend Mark, hurrah! Oh shit, he looked like he was going to cry. Luckily for him I didn’t feel like crying at all, so I told him I was absolutely fine, it was nowhere near as bad as I’d expected and that I was going to get through it and it seemed to make him feel better. I really believed it too. It made me realise, though, that although this was possibly the worst thing I could ever imagine happening to me, it was far worse for the people I’d left behind. I knew that they were really suffering, while I was feeling quite relaxed. Don’t forget, I’d been resigned to this for a long time, and it looked like it was going to be so much less shit than I’d dared hope.

The visitors’ centre was nothing like how they’re portrayed on TV either. There were comfortable chairs around a table, a calm and relaxed atmosphere and a shop run by volunteers selling drinks and sweets. I had a very nice visit with Mark and after a couple of hours I had to go back to my room to pass the rest of the weekend. Slowly. I watched a lot of telly and read the book I’d very sensibly taken with me. It was a very funny one too, Round Ireland With A Fridge by Tony Hawks. It really helped get me through that first weekend because how can you be miserable when you’re laughing uncontrollably?

And so, dear reader, I shall leave it there for today. I apologise if I’m going into too much detail but there’s so much to say. Rest assured, however, that from now on I won’t be writing about every single day, we’d be here forever.

Porridge Part 1

Porridge Part 1

I dropped a smallish bombshell in my last post so it’s only fair to do a bit of follow up.  I apologise if it’s reaaaaaaaaaaally long and spread over a few posts.  For me prison was a very positive experience, but I was determined that it would be and made sure it was.  I was on bail for the 5 or 6 months after my arrest so apart from one night in the cells I’d had no time at all in custody.  Despite being endlessly told throughout the whole criminal justice process that I would be fine and that they’d never send anyone like me to prison, at the back of my mind I had doubts and expected a custodial sentence, even before I’d been found guilty.  Perhaps it was just a survival technique but I felt like I needed to prepare for the absolute worst.  In this case I thought that if I did that at least I wouldn’t be disappointed.  And so I wasn’t!  To this day though I’m incredibly glad I’d never watched an episode of Bad Girls.  I think I’d have been a gibbering wreck if that was what I was expecting.

The night before sentencing I went on a bit of a bender with some friends.  As you do.  I was really rather drunk and a good night was had by all.  Unfortunately I had a terrible hangover the next day so wasn’t perhaps at my best when I went to court.  But I didn’t see how that really mattered when I wouldn’t be drinking again for quite some time.  I’d hoped to maybe catch up on some sleep in the cells or the prison van. Ha!

So, sentence was passed.  My friend Mel gasped audibly and my mother’s mobile phone started ringing REALLY loudly.  Scotland the Brave, how embarrassing.  I went down to the cells and waited.  Then I waited a bit more.  Then some more.  Portsmouth Crown Court is an unpleasant looking brown carbuncle and couldn’t be more 70s if it tried.  I had hoped for a little comfort in the cells.  Wrong!  I had a wooden slatted bench.  No mattress, no cushioning whatsoever.  I was freezing cold and my arse was numb.  I very much regretted wearing a suit for sentencing and wished instead I’d had the foresight to wear a sleeping bag.  Still, the nice custody bloke who’d been present at my trial was very sympathetic and got me a nice scratchy blanket and a copy of the Daily Mail.  My favourite.  To add insult to injury the lead story was some pro Tory political bullshit written by someone I was at primary school with.  Well, actually it was a prep school, I’m frightfully middle class, me.  I remember when I was about 10 there was a general election (or some kind of election) on and he came in to school with Tory leaflets sellotaped all over his brief case.  Good times.

Eventually after much waiting some transport turned up from Southampton to take me and some other prisoners to our new home.  I still had a hangover.  They were a bit cack handed getting me in to the van; I was handcuffed and made to get into this teeny little space with one seat and a window and an inch thick steel door which a woman then stuck her foot into while she took the cuffs off, presumably blocking my way so I didn’t leg it down the road waving my arms about.  Didn’t she know I wasn’t even slightly tempted to do that?  My hangover really was pretty bad.  And off we went.  I felt a bit teary as we drove out of Portsmouth, you know what it’s like when you’re not going to see a place for a while, your brain invents false memories of how wonderful it is.  “Oh look,” thought I, “the university, I went there for about 5 minutes.”  And “Oh look, Commercial Road, I love shopping there, such wonderful shops and there’s never 50 million people getting in my way.”  And “Oh look, the lovely flats as you drive out of the city, so attractive, the architect deserves a medal.”  The Tricorn might still have been standing then too.  Another carbuncle yet on that day I’d have looked at it fondly.  Ridiculous.

The journey was…uncomfortable.  I was wearing a thick anorak as it was the middle of winter.  Unfortunately the temperature inside the transport van was hotter than the sun.  I didn’t know it at the time but those things are known to all inmates everywhere as sweatboxes.  I somehow managed to remove my coat, no mean feat in such a tiny space, but I had to employ a degree of contortion and possibly dislocated my shoulder as well.  Stupid sweatbox.  Radio 1 was playing at 200 decibels and while on this journey I heard that bloody JCB song for the first time.  And the second.  And the third.  The other prisoners were chatting to each other too.  Some little scrote who was on his way to Feltham and two other women.  Unsurprisingly I stayed quiet as a quiet thing while the radio made my ears bleed.

And then we arrived at HMP Bronzefield.  By this time it was getting fairly late, about 5 or 6 and it seemed we couldn’t come in because of some mysterious ritual called “roll check”.  They mentioned it about 112 times.  So after a long day’s sitting we sat some more.  Little scrote was getting quite above himself by this time and was trying to get the other girls’ names so he could write to them.  Bless.  Only I’ve seen what male prisoners write now so I think I’ll take that back, actually.

After some time “roll check” was declared a success or something, all prisoners were accounted for, none were hiding in bins or on the bottom of laundry trucks and we were allowed in.  Woohoo!  Bronzefield is a modern privately run prison, bright, clean and shiny and not remotely what I had expected.  I was met by another inmate who told me stuff about the prison including times of locking up, unlocking, meals, etc, none of which I took in.  I was given a microwave meal as I’d missed dinner and then I was shown to my room.  That wasn’t what I had expected either.  In each section of the prison there was a central hub where all the officers hung out, jangled their keys and barked at people and it was surrounded by 4 “spurs”. In each spur was a large communal area with tables, chairs, and a pool table.  Cells were situated either side on 2 levels and there was a servery, laundry room, shower room and a telephone box, or possibly 2.  There were quite a few women around and about and I tried not to look at them as I went into my room clutching my stuff in a big plastic HM Prison Service bag.  I sat on the bed and surveyed my new home.  There was a single bed, a basin, a toilet partly behind a screen, some open shelving and hanging rail and a big thick steel door.  And a TV.  A TV?  I hadn’t expected that!  I put it on.  Bugger it.  Children In Need.

Hope Springs?

Hope Springs?

This evening I watched a new BBC drama (?), comedy (?), comedy drama (?) called Hope Springs.  It starred Alex Kingston (posh curly haired bird) and…erm…some other people as ex-cons who rip off Kingston’s husband to the tune of several million quid, go on the run and end up in deepest Scotland.  There are a few reasons why this was less than a televisual feast, not least Alex Kingston’s dodgy cock-er-nee accent, presumably to make her more convincing as a con.  It seems these women made friends in the big house and hatched their plan in the dining room, over a batch of illicitly brewed hooch or while mopping the landing floors or something.

What a load of old bollocks.  Naturally such a premise will appeal to the Daily Mail readers out there whose expectation of offenders is such that the second they leave prison they’re at it again.  Although this is a supposedly light-hearted comedy/drama/whatever it is I find this “criminals reverting to type” malarkey to be incredibly damaging.  In fact, it plays right into the hands of said Daily Mail readers who wake up every morning mumbling “lock ‘em up and throw away the key” so unless Hope Springs make their characters ones that the public can sympathise with it will just add more fuel to that mentality.

Why, you may ask, am I so incensed by this?  Well I guess that makes this confession time.  My name is Fiona and I’m an ex-offender.  I’ve been to prison and everything.  Now, before you go closing the window in horror and rush back to the sofa congratulating yourself on your lucky escape, just take a minute to allow me to explain.  I’m not a burglar, nor a drug addict, neither am I a prostitute, how rude of you to have thought so.  Some might say I was a victim of circumstance but, in a nutshell, I was an unhappy mother of 2 in a difficult relationship, had a fight with my then boyfriend and in a moment of abject stupidity/unthinking madness, call it what you will, I grabbed the nearest thing to hand and hit him with it. Unfortunately the nearest thing was a long-bladed Sabatier knife covered in cheese from the pizza my sons had eaten for dinner and the action was more stabbing than hitting.  In his upper back. Thankfully there was no damage to his internal organs or threat to his life and the resultant cut was small in size and only needed  a few stitches. There were also 2 other small puncture wounds that didn’t need stitches. The fact that it could have been so much worse doesn’t bear thinking about.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to play down what I did, far from it.  I know I overreacted badly and did the wrong thing, I’ve had a lot of time to think about it.  999 was called, and, while my sons slept upstairs 8 of Hampshire Constabulary’s finest came into my house, handcuffed me, arrested me for attempted murder and carted me off in their meat wagon.  I was wearing a pink strapless party dress, a favourite among the criminal fraternity I believe.

With one ridiculously imbecilic action my whole life turned upside down. I wasn’t allowed to my home, I had to move in with my parents and sister. I didn’t get to see my children for two weeks, two incredibly long and miserable weeks and when I did finally see them, I wasn’t allowed near their house or school. Contact agreements were made through a solicitor and, given the circumstances, I think I was actually lucky that we didn’t have to endure supervised visits. Over the six months until my trial I did get to see them more, and pick them up from school, but the initial blow of going from living with them and being a “normal” mother to being a part-time parent was very hard to take. I think I’ve blocked out a lot of what I was feeling as I tried to come to terms with what was hanging over me and trying to stay positive for the kids, while at the same time preparing them for the inevitable.  My trial has to be the single worst experience of my life, even compared to the unfortunate cycling accident I had while on holiday in France once (and the operation I had to have as a result) and a c-section under general anaesthetic (I really don’t like operations). It was beyond hideous, I felt on the verge of tears the whole time but managed to keep my composure, something I think made the jury feel unsympathetic towards me.  And they found me guilty of Section 18, wounding with intent to cause GBH (I had never been charged with attempted murder but that was what I was initially arrested for).  This was my first experience of the criminal justice system and it will certainly be my last.  My God but it was awful and I still relive it occasionally and all the feelings come rushing back.  But anyway.  Bygones.

On November 18th 2005, a mere 10 days before my 30th birthday, I found myself in the unenviable position of being carted off to prison for 3 years for wounding with intent to cause GBH.  With a stonking hangover.

So quite frankly I think this gives me licence to be annoyed about the depiction of prisons and prisoners in fictional and some non-fiction programmes.  I had mentally prepared myself for prison and was determined to only get good things out of it.  I did just that but will leave the details for a later post.  Suffice to say I was a model prisoner and worked hard to be.  So am I a stereotypical ex-offender?  Of course not.  I wasn’t a stereotypical offender either with my private education and clear diction.  But in truth there’s no such thing because all sorts of people are there for all sorts of reasons.  One thing I can state categorically is that it’s nothing like Bad Girls.  Neither did I notice any heists being organised while I was there… I will persevere with Hope Springs, if only so that I can complain to the BBC and demand immediate repayment of my licence fee for the negative publicity they’ve given people like me.

Reality bites

Reality bites

So, it’s the final of the Apprentice tonight.  Good.  This means it won’t be on TV any more and neither will its endless adverts.  Although I’m actually quite impressed at how the BBC are able to portray exactly how stupid the applicants are every week in only a few seconds.  If I were a business tycoon I don’t think I’d be hiring any of them.  In case you hadn’t been able to guess, I’m not exactly a fan of the reality TV genre.  I don’t watch The Apprentice, X Factor, Britain’s Got Talent, Big Brother or any of those “let’s find a random off the streets to play the lead in our musical because they’re much cheaper than real actors” type things that are ALWAYS presented by Graham Norton.  I hate Graham Norton.

I suppose Big Brother started off a lot of this reality deluge.  Whoever came up with it was either a) very lazy or b) an absolute genius.   It’s like a form of torture and they just seem intent upon winding up the attention-seeking morons that sign up for it year in year out.  You know the type, they’re after fame for fame’s sake and are of the opinion that any exposure is good exposure.  Trust me, it’s not. In my life I have watched only one series of Big Brother and the only reason I did was that it was 13 weeks long and I wanted to kill some time as I had a lot of it to kill.  Once I’d started watching, though, I couldn’t not look, it was like watching a car crash.  I was permanently horrified that people would act in the way they did anywhere in society, never mind on national television.

Perhaps this just demonstrates the difference between me and the kind of people that sign up for these shows.  I would like to be known for my achievements (currently none of note) and if there are none I’m happy enough not to be known at all.  Far better that than to be recognised as “the one who likes to have very public tantrums”, “the one who’s whiter than white but liked to talk all street like the black girls tho innit” or “the one who was vilified for being fat, racist and looking like a pig only for there to be a complete u-turn when they got cancer and died and everyone started revering them in the way they did Princess Diana.”  Hmmmm, who could I mean?

One thing I really don’t understand is why they call it reality TV when there’s nothing real about it.  A particularly far-fetched episode of Diagnosis Murder is probably more realistic (and, yes, I know DM is a load of old pap but myself and some friends have something of a soft spot for it).  Things like Big Brother are contrived and painful to watch and while we all accept that real life can be pretty atrocious and throws all kinds of shit at us, how many of us would invite this willingly and publicly?  I envisage that one day they’ll go too far with their Chinese water torture style tasks and that a contestant will go nuts and either take out the others with a kitchen knife or top themselves.  Hopefully in the name of decency Channel 4 would pull the plug but what is far more likely is that ratings would rocket and they’ll stage bigger and better rampages in future series.  In fact you should read Dead Famous by Ben Elton, he seems to think that wouldn’t be beyond the realms of possibility…

A little bit of politics…

A little bit of politics…

So I’ve been to the polling station to cast my vote and, no, I didn’t vote BNP.  I was thinking about this voting malarkey and it seems that although I’ve had the vote for 15 years I can only remember actually doing it 3 times before today.  Doubtless there have been more than 3 elections since late 1993 and my lack of voting was largely due to total apathy and/or not bothering to put myself on the electoral roll.  Hey, I was young.  Since I never had any idea of who to vote for I always used to put down Lib Dem as it seemed suitably fence-sitterish to me.  And, in the General Election that brought Tony Blair to power at least, it was pretty much a wasted vote.  Oh well.

Out of interest does anyone else remember the Spitting Image character of Tony Blair when he first came to prominence? He was depicted as a small child with a high pitched voice who uttered the immortal line “Mrs Beckett! Mrs Beckett!  You’re a tampon!” Genius.  Sadly I can’t find this on YouTube but I assure you I didn’t imagine it.

When I went to vote today I couldn’t quite believe the size of the ballot paper.  It was absolutely enormous.  Neither could I believe exactly how many different parties were represented.  All in alphabetical order with BNP at the top, worryingly.  I hadn’t heard of quite a few of the parties and this is probably because every time some election related crap…I mean literature…came through the door I bunged it straight in the bin without reading it.  Even the stuff that was addressed directly to me.  In fact, I took umbrage at the ones addressed to me, I don’t remember ticking a box that said “please send me loads of crap”.  Just because I’m on the electoral roll doesn’t mean you can use my address.  Grrrrr.  Don’t get me wrong, I have read these election leaflets in the past.  Well, maybe one.  It said “Vote for me, I’ve got a beard.  I pledge better rights for other people with beards. Proper beards, not goatees and definitely not handlebar moustaches.”  Well, it was something like that, and probably just as relevant.

I have seen quite a few “party election broadcasts” as they call them now in the run up to today.  Some of them are hilarious.  I wonder if they were meant to be?  The Conservatives had David Cameron being all dynamic and doing some kind of roadshow where Joe Public, absolutely none of whom were Young Conservatives *ahem* were asking him really difficult questions, and he won them ALL over. Wow, what a guy.  The Lib Dems’ offering was more of the same, Nick Clegg saying something like the expenses scandal would never have happened on their watch.  I don’t know, I stopped listening after the first 30 seconds.  Labour cunningly didn’t have Gordon Brown addressing the nation at all in theirs.  If they had, the masses would be crowding outside Downing Street with torches and pitchforks baying for his blood.  No, they used Eddie Izzard, cos he’s all hip and cool and it went something like ‘I was brought up by wolves (Vote Labour) and I’m wearing jam trousers. Vote Labour, I’m covered in bees….Jam…”  Yes, that’s right, they used subliminal messaging.

Of course, it wasn’t just the main parties producing these broadcasts, some of the lesser and downright obscure ones had them too.  I saw one with Ricky “I was a political prisoner don’t you know” Tomlinson for the Socialist Labour Party (do you see what they did there?) that only seemed to have one message: “GET OUT OF EUROPE”.  They said it about 100 times in 4 minutes, I don’t think they gave any reasons, just kept saying it, like Bart and Lisa Simpson do until Homer gives in.  I was a bit worried too when I saw the Green Party one and thought “Ooooh, really? You make an interesting point there. And I don’t HAVE to agree that climate change is going to make the world go pop even though we’re just coming out of an ice age?”  And then I realised I don’t have any clothes made of hemp and regained control of my senses.  Phew.  My absolute favourite broadcast, however, was for UKIP, a party famous only for the fact that the delightful Robert Kilroy-Silk used to be their foremost and most racist member.  There were some lovely wooden performances from various of their number, telling us in a stilted fashion how they’re not racist at all. No, honestly, we LOVE ethnic minorities. AND women.  But this wasn’t the best bit.  No, that happened when a young spotty chap was talking and managed to let out the biggest bit of flob I’ve ever seen unintentionally leave someone’s mouth.  I wasn’t sure if my eyes had deceived me at first so I rewound the telly to check.  Sure enough, there it was.  Did they like the flob enough not to do a retake?  Apparently so.  It should have finished with “Vote UKIP, we’re not racist, honest. We’ve got flob.”