Patience is a pain

They do say that patience is a virtue. I bet that was written by someone who never had to wait for anything in his or her life! Whoever it was certainly never had to experience life at the Lazy L, and THAT'S a fact!

Great Chatham, with his sabre drawn,
Stood waiting for Sir Richard Strachan;
Sir Richard, longing to be at 'em,
Stood waiting: for the Earl of Chatham.

Well, I know how they felt, that's all I'm saying.

It's happening again! Once more I have become a victim of the malaise known to the medical profession as "The Lazy L Syndrome". I made a few discreet enquiries the other day - "What's happening to my transfer to open jail?"

The answer came back (unofficially) from some nitwit at the Offender Management Unit, that fine body of men and women upon whom the future and fate of every prisoner depends - "You will have to apply to be transferred to a Cat B establishment using the proper channels." An answer clearly from someone too idle to bother to make even a basic enquiry into the matter.

"Wonderful!" said I to me and grabbed my personal officer. "Hoy!" said I, the epitome of good manners. "What's going on with this transfer to open prison?"

"I don't know," said he , "I'll see what I can find out."

He came back later. "I can't find out nuffink," said he. "All they are saying is that they are waiting for the Secretary of State to rubber-stamp the paperwork. They won't do anything until he's done that."

"Well," carried on our hero, "are they making any effort to find out if the paperwork has been rubber-stamped?"

"No," was the response.

"Why not?" asked yours truly, not unreasonably I thought.

"No idea," was his answer.

"Right," said I, and proceeded to fill in a proper application to the governor saying, simply, "What is the position in respect of my transfer to open conditions?" or words to that effect. Only two lines, nothing complicated - a simple question. So far, no reply is the answer.

Well, I've gritted my teeth, girded the loins, clad myself in the armour of yet another righteous cause and written a letter to one of the Golden Girls on the subject.

Bugger! They will object to being called the Golden Girls, so that's another strike against me. One day (I'm convinced) they will all get together - Boudica, The Wallace, Blodwyn and all of the wonderful women I know - they'll get me into a windowless room somewhere and roll up their collective sleeves and say, "Right, you piss-taking Bollix, we want a word with you." Listen, ladies, I'm an old man - if you thugs lay one finger on me that will be seen as Old Person Abuse, and if it's not a criminal offence, it should be. (Come to think about it, people pay good money for that sort of thing in Amsterdam.)

Anyway, the point is that I have written to The Wallace and informed her that once again I'm getting lumps on my head where I am bouncing it off the wall of indifference which the Lazy L is so proud of.

Having said all that, the Secretary of State may well have given his blessing (however reluctantly) to my progression and the Lazy L could well be concealing it until they deem it right and judicious to tell me - probably seven minutes before they shove me in a taxi and tell me to bugger off. They are obsessed with completely pointless secrecy in this prison - it's their stock-in-trade in fact.

In conclusion then - nothing has changed, not a thing. Nothing has happened, there is nothing to tell the world and if there was then the Lazy L wouldn't let me.

I was asked the other day, "Is Boudica on Facebook?" Facebook! I'm surprised she's not on fucking prozac!

The Voice In The Wi1derness