I was finally finding my feet in prison, surrounded by good friends like Shayne and Robby while doing my best to steer clear of the idiots who would only drag me down. The atmosphere felt a little lighter, and I was starting to adapt to the rhythms of life behind bars.
I was now allowed a few visits a week, which brought a sense of anticipation and relief. Poor Catherine made the long journey over from the Isle of Wight, usually arriving by train with a few bits and pieces of clothing and supplies. She brought me some clothes so that I could finally get out of my regulation greens—the trousers that felt like a constant reminder of my confinement.
But every visit carried with it an emotional weight. There were always tears, both mine and hers, as we grappled with the harsh reality of our situation. The love we shared was powerful but also fraught with hardship. I felt the burden of my circumstances pressing down on her; I was now on my arse, with no money to offer her, and she was relying on support just to make the journey to see me.
“Catherine, you have no idea how much it means to me that you’re here,” I would tell her, trying to convey my gratitude amidst the sadness. But I couldn’t ignore the strain on her. It took her all day to get to me, often resulting in just one hour of visitation before she had to make the return trip.
“Please don’t feel obligated to keep coming,” I said one day, feeling the weight of her sacrifice. “I don’t want to burden you.”
She shook her head fiercely. “I’m not going to stop seeing you. She said.
I admired her strength, but part of me was conflicted. I knew continuing to see her every week was hard on her, and I couldn’t help but worry about the toll it was taking. I eventually told her that I would decide when to stop; it wasn’t fair for her to bear the weight of that decision alone. In some way, it felt selfish on my part, but I wanted to remain connected to her as I navigated this difficult chapter.
As I settled into life at Ford, I tried to focus on the positives—the friendships I had formed and the small routines that provided structure. My time in prison still felt like a nightmare at times, but with Catherine's support, I felt more anchored. I knew I would have to face the reality of my trial eventually, but for now, my priority was to take it one day at a time and hold on to the hope that things could still change for the better.
After a while longer, I finally decided to shut down all calls to Catherine every night. The back-and-forth madness was starting to weigh on both of us. I called her one last time, knowing I still had about two more years to go. “It’s for the best,” I told myself, no matter how hard it was to accept. We both needed to get on with our lives, and as difficult as it sounded, prison had taught me that lesson.
Life inside was becoming a routine, a strange sort of normalcy that I had never expected to settle into. I had lost over three stone during my time in prison—better than being the fat cunt I had become from too much Guinness. The focus on routine, exercise, and the structured environment had contributed to that, but it was a necessary transformation as I reassessed my life.
I turned my attention to reading, devouring books in abundance that Catherine had recommended. They were inspirational and spiritual, opening my mind and guiding me towards finding a sense of enlightenment for the future. Each page felt like a breadcrumb leading me closer to understanding myself and the world around me.
With every book I consumed, I began to see things in a different way—the “awakened way.” It was as if the fog that had clouded my judgement started to lift, and my awareness expanded. I realised that what I had lived through was beyond personal failures; it was about challenging the system that had imprisoned me, both literally and figuratively.
I began to embrace the idea that I was a rebel against that system, the established order that felt unjust and oppressive. It became clear that the choices I made, while imperfect, were part of a deeper struggle against something I couldn’t quite define but knew inherently wasn’t right.
As prison life continued, I found solace within the words of the authors I read. They expanded my horizons and nudged me toward a belief that there was a path forward, one that didn’t solely revolve around my past mistakes. Each story of resilience resonated, igniting a flicker of hope in my heart.
Even though my current reality was stark and sometimes suffocating, I was evolving. The lessons I absorbed through those pages began to shape a vision for my future—one where I could reclaim my identity and live with intention rather than shackled by guilt and regret. I was transforming, discovering strength I never knew I had, and for the first time in a long while, I felt that it might all lead to something meaningful.
As time went on in prison, I found myself meeting a few guys who carried heavy burdens—men with serious issues. One day, I was invited for tea by one of them, and I willingly obliged, curious to learn about his story. When I arrived at his room, I quickly realized he was a murder convict, having been locked up since he was a child. His life experiences were a stark reminder of the harsh realities surrounding me.
His mate in there had a look about him that reminded me of one of the Brothers—a biker type with a ZZ Top vibe. It didn’t take long to discover that he, too, had committed murder. The duo made for an unsettling presence, and I felt a deep sense of unease.
During our tea, the memory of the cup he handed me stuck with me long after. The mug was thick, its surface crusted with a biscuit-coloured residue that had clearly accumulated over years, and there was hardly any room left for the actual tea. “I haven’t washed that cup in ten years,” he proudly declared, as if it were a badge of honor.
I couldn’t help but think, “Great, I better not drop it—he might really kill me.” A surge of uneasiness washed over me, especially since his demeanour showcased a lingering madness that edged on disturbing. I quickly realised I had made a mistake walking into that room.
After a short, awkward chat, I made my excuses and got out of there as soon as possible. These guys were not my cup of tea, and I preferred to keep my distance.
A few days later, rumours spread that one of them got shipped out. I learned he had been talking to the ravens outside—speaking to birds was a peculiar trait, and it sounded like a signal that he was losing touch with reality. The whispers swirled around me, reminding me that this place was filled with unpredictable souls, many of whom grappled with demons I could barely comprehend.
The experience reinforced my instincts to tread carefully in this landscape. While I recognised the importance of forming connections, I knew I had to choose wisely. With each encounter, I reminded myself that I was here to survive and grow, not to get entangled in the complexities of other inmates' lives and issues.
Life in prison was a balancing act, and I was determined to navigate it in a way that kept me safe. My focus was on finding my footing and preparing for the day I would reclaim my freedom, wherever that might lead me.
As time passed, Robbie and I began to hang out more, forming a solid friendship that transcended the bleakness of our surroundings. One day, we landed a rather unusual job together—looking after a fish pond. It seemed almost absurd to think that we had been tasked with such a carefree responsibility.
There we were, enjoying the sunshine, our main job being to feed the fish. One of us would take the lid off the feed pot, and the other would sprinkle the food into the water. “Talk about a piss take,” I chuckled, the laughter bubbling up easily and naturally.
“Alright, Robbie, it’s your turn to feed them,” I said, gleefully passing the responsibility over to him. He responded with mock hesitation, saying, “Do I have to?”
We both cracked up at the ridiculousness of it all, and when he finally got up to feed the fish, he did so with just two pinches of food, as if he were rationing out gourmet treats. The sight of the fish darting around hungry for their meal made us laugh so hard that our guts ached.
“Look at those fools out there working hard,” I said, gesturing toward a few inmates who toiled under the sun with heavy labour, sweating and grunting as they carried stacks of pallets. “And there we are, taking it easy!”
I was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, bold and vibrant, which certainly made me stand out like a sore thumb. It felt good to don something so colourful, a small rebellion against the grey drudgery that surrounded our lives.
Just then, an officer strolled by, raising an eyebrow at me. “Who do you think you are?” he called out, a hint of amusement in his voice.
With a grin that I couldn’t suppress, I replied, “I’m on my holidays!”
He chuckled in response, shaking his head. In that moment, I could sense the tension easing, if only just for a brief time. Laughter echoed around the pond, filling a void that the prison walls usually suppressed.
Those moments brought a slice of joy to our days, a reminder that even within these confines, we could carve out our happiness. As I watched the fish swim around peacefully and the sun glistened on the surface of the water, I felt a flicker of hope that life, despite all its chaos, still held small treasures worth cherishing.
With the arrival of laughter and friendship, I started to understand that survival in this chaotic environment was not just about navigating the tough times but also about finding joy among them.
As winter approached, the chill in the air made our daily task of feeding the fish increasingly uncomfortable. The cold seeped into our bones, and it became clear that we needed to find some warmth. That’s when Robbie hatched a clever plan. “Let’s get a job as orderly cooks in the officers’ mess,” he suggested. “We can take a cooking course, eat nice food, and stay warm.”
It was a brilliant idea. With some charm and wit, we managed to schmooze the lady officer we got along with, presenting ourselves as eager candidates ready to take on the culinary challenge. She agreed to help us, and soon enough, we were thrust into the kitchen, cooking up a storm and enjoying the perks that came with it.
As we settled into our new roles, life felt a bit sweeter. The warmth of the kitchen was a welcome reprieve from the cold cells, and the food we prepared was a vast improvement over the usual prison fare. We mixed with other inmates, including John—a character who always managed to attract attention, though not always for the right reasons.
John was the kind of guy who brought chaos wherever he went; his antics often left a wake of trouble in their path. One day, things took a bizarre turn when he ended up having shagging our lady civilian teacher who was there for the course. The revelation spread like wildfire through the prison, and for a moment, it felt like our lives were a poorly written sitcom.
But the laughter quickly soured when the word got out that John was somehow implicated in a rumour that I was involved. “What the hell?” I thought. I had no desire to share in John’s foolishness or the drama that followed. He was shipped out shortly after, leaving behind the chaos he’d created. A lifer who would never see the light of day again, he exemplified the reckless abandon that often gripped those around me.
Though I found myself shaking my head at the absurdity of it all, I realised the dangers that came with mingling too closely with the wrong crowd. As nice as it was to enjoy a warmer environment and better food, I knew I had to remain vigilant. My past still loomed over me, and any wrong association could pull me back into the depths I was desperately trying to escape.
As the winter nights settled in, I focused on making the most of my time in the kitchen with Robbie, finding joy in our culinary adventures while being cautious about who I let into my orbit. The cooking duties allowed me a sense of purpose, but I was acutely aware that I needed to navigate prison life with a careful balance, avoiding the pitfalls that had led many astray.
Christmas came and went in a blur of routine and manufactured cheer. The highlight of the holiday was receiving a Mars bar from the priest—a man who, despite the scandal surrounding him (he had been nicked for child porn on his computer), had always been decent to the inmates. The strangeness of it all left a bad taste, but it was just another reminder that the world outside had its shadows, and sometimes, those shadows crept into unexpected places.
As January rolled in, we hatched a plan that promised to shake up the monotony of prison life. One of the inmates, who worked in the port area, had connections that could smuggle in some lobsters for us. It felt like a stroke of genius—an adventure that was barely legal, but that oozed excitement.
“By hook or by crook, we’ll make this happen,” I said, the thrill of the scheming bubbling inside me. On a particularly cold morning, our plan came to fruition. The lobsters were dropped off discreetly into a couple of bins not far from our kitchen—a covert operation that left us giddy with anticipation.
We had the teacher on our side, someone who believed in supporting our little enterprise. With a few glances and nods of understanding, we got to work, cooking those four big lobsters. The aroma that filled the kitchen was intoxicating, and as we plated the decadent lobster thermidor, I couldn’t help but feel like we had pulled off something extraordinary.
We looked at each other, grinning from ear to ear. Robbie said “how the other half live hey?” We filled with a sense of camaraderie and triumph as we prepared to indulge ourselves.
While other inmates paced in their cells, waiting out the long hours of lock-up, we feasted on lobster like royalty. The dish was far from what they typically served—this was a slice of indulgence that felt almost outrageous in its deliciousness.
As the clock approached midnight on New Year’s Eve, we raised our makeshift glasses—filled with whatever drinks we could procure—and toasting to our success felt like a small rebellion against the confines of our circumstances. “Here’s to the new year!” I declared, looking around at my friends.
The taste of the lobster was heavenly, a culinary delight that contrasted sharply with the austere surroundings. In that moment, I felt a sense of defiance and determination rise within me; I was reminded that even in the darkest places, we could create moments of joy and camaraderie.
That New Year’s Eve became a cherished memory among the chaos, an hour spent laughing and savouring the fruits of our labour. No matter the challenges we faced, it was experiences like this that kept the flicker of hope alive, reminding us that life, even in prison, could surprisingly still provide bursts of happiness.
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