Prisons are now being run for the henefit of the staff - prisons have nothing to do with prisoners! The prisoners are merely the goods and chattels which have, quite simply, become part of the furniture of the prisons that are being run for the sole benefit of those who work in them. And when I say work I am speaking very loosely indeed.
Don't misunderstand me. The great majority of the people who work in prisons really do want to do the job they are paid for, but a small few won't let them. A small few think prisoners should be given nothing, taught nothing and kept incarcerated inside their cells on bread and water for twenty-seven hours a day.
These people are invariably members of the P.O.A., that august body of men and women who resent each and every innovation which might mean that the prisoner's lot may be improved and that they may actually have to do something to earn their stipend. They walk around in groups, grizzling and learning from the P.O.A. manual, "Ten Thousand Ways To Say No".
Then, of course, we've got the thirty-nine governors here at the Lazy L who have also taken to wandering about the place in groups. Well, they have to I suppose - there aren't enough offices for them all to hide in.
To move on slightly, on this wing we have a female warder - in fact she must be a kangress! (That's a brand new word - let's see if I can make it take on.) I can't use her name, of course, and I wouldn't want to, but she is grumpy. Now, I know from experience that it is actually harder and takes more skills to be grumpy than it does to be a Polyanna. The thing is, not only does it take more skills to be grumpy, it is actually much more fun. The reality is that her bark is much worse than her bite and she actually goes to great lengths to help those with problems. I like her immensely. She is rude to me, but I can see her grinning when I am rude back. We have sort of developed a system of finger signals which would be understood in any language.
I got my Saturday Telegraph this week, for a change - I am waiting now to see whether I get my Mail on Sunday. In tbe M-O-S last week there was a free Tina Turner CD. At the price we pay, I would expect a weekend with Tina Turner, never mind a bleedin' CD. Anyway, be that as it may, tbe CD should have been given to me - after all, I paid for it. It wasn't. They said to apply for it from reception. I did that - reception know nothing about it. In fact nobody knows 'nuffink' about it. The Tina Turner CD has disappeared into the ether. I'm going to have a word with the Independent Members' Board (formerly the Board of Visitors) about it. There was a DVD in yesterday's paper and I got that no trouble. Clearly there is a Tina Turner fan who is too mean to buy the Mail on Sunday.
Finally, I turn my attention to that wonderful heart of gold, Boudica. She writes to me every day, posts the letters daily - and that's what Boudica does, as I do myself. Last week I found it necessary to tell a P.O.A. member that he was bone idle because he quite simply refused to get the mail and distribute it. Since then I have had no mail whatsoever from anyone. I make no further comment on that but I'll be bringing that up with tbe I.M.B. too. It is childishly vindictive really. The mug goes home each and every night to his family, if he's got one. Prisoners never go home. Our mail is our life-line.
Where was I? Oh yes, Boudica. The war of the Errant Pigeons between Boudica and the Troll may be over because Boudica thinks that the Troll has rented the house to a young couple and therefore the Troll may now bugger off and stop assassinating Boudica's birds. The star of the show, Scruffy, now has a friend too, apparently - so perhaps that is all turning out for the best.
Where does it all leave me? Nowhere, that's where. I'm still in the process of getting good old Blodwyn to sort out the mess made by the Smiling Assassin in respect of my recategorisation and reallocation. In fact it is business as usual really - hurry up and wait.
Has anybody got a copy of Tina Turner's Greatest Hits they don't want? Send it to the tea-leaf who has pinched mine.
The Voice In The Wilderness
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