The dance of uncertainty

I don't think anyone will be surprised (or shocked) when I say that another week has passed without any sort of definite news, or even an acceptable promise of any news. The Lazy L is working well, apparently, right on course for absolutely bugger-all. I've got this scenario in my head (in amongst the dross and drivel that normally resides there) that one day they will approach me in a manner of a reasonable nature and say, "Get your gear sorted out, Frank, you are on your travels."  Personally, I think there is more chance of Nelson getting his eye back - but that's just me being defeatist and best ignored. However, nobody must get the idea that I am alone in this waiting game because I am not - the place is full of fellows waiting for a bus-pass to greener pastures.

I understand that over the main gate they have erected a new sign which says, "YOU AIN'T GOING NOWHERE FROM HERE!"

Boudica is annoyed about it all of course, and who can blame her? Almost six months ago she found out that I had been recommended for open prison and was delighted because that meant I would soon be adorning her doorstep with my hat in hand, begging for a bed for the night. Well, that hasn't happened, and she has become disillusioned I think, as I have myself. I was full of plans as to what I was going to do to prepare my future. Now? I'm beginning to doubt that future completely.

It's not as though there is any reason for me to be contained  in this place any more - there isn't. Nobody asks me to do anything, nobody asks me any questions - nothing. I am left entirely to my own devices, completely ignored by the prison and those who allegedly run it. They want nothing from me and I ask for nothing from them other than "feed me".

Somewhere, stuck in some rat hole of a local, Victorian-built prison, there is someone waiting for me to vacate the premises so that they can have my cell and then proceed to work on their own problems toward their own release. Unfortunately they have to sit where they are too, fighting cockroaches for their beds and saying, "Why can't I be transferred to a long-term jail?"

The answer?

"We are waiting for a place for you."

I ask, "Why can't I be transferred?"

The answer?

"We are waiting for a place for you."

And so the macabre dance goes on spreading uncertainty, unrest, restlessness, frustration and everything else that goes with all of those things. In the meanwhile the prison service goes on blithely pretending that there is no problem and God help any misguided prisoner who shows signs of suffering from the stress of it all. Apparently, suffering from stress is the sole prerogative of staff - those people who only work three days a week and who go home every night. It is illegal for prisoners to suffer from stress - it is in the rules. Prisoners must smile at all times, it's the law.

However, let's not be churlish about this. After all, what have I got to complain about? I've only been in jail for over a quarter century for nothing, I get one hot meal a day, I have been allowed to buy myself a decent bed and I get a shower every morning without having to worry about anyone wanting or trying to introduce me to unnatural practices! (Mind, anyone silly enough to want to try that sort of thing deserves to be in jail for gross stupidity - either that or they are suicidal.)

What am I complaining about?

It could be worse - I could be a Lib Dem and feeling the pain of the knife in the back from the True Blues, because it's coming.

Oh, just ignore me - I'm not getting my sleep, I'm a miserable old bastard and, according to Boudica, I'm a sick man.  All that may well be true - and probably is - but that doesn't detract from the fact that the prison service isn't doing its job - but then again, when did it ever? 

The Voice In The Wilderness