It came a week early but was still as welcome for a' that. I was handed the addendum report to accompany my parole reports and it had been written by (or concerned the reports of) the Offender Supervisor here at the Home for Gay Sailors and my my ould pal The Wallace! Actually it was The SS who wrote it but the Wallace's hand is quite visible somewhere in there.
The upshot is that I am recommended for parole, to be released to the hostel in the city. Now, to be fair, there isn't always a space available and, even if there is, the local Probation Service are not bound to accept me. Let's face it, others wouldn't (and who can blame them?). However (and this is the bit which tells me that I am being fully supported in my application), if it should prove that I cannot go to the local hostel, for whatever reason, then The Wallace/The SS state quite categorically that there IS a space for me in the North East. Okay, nobody wants me there because of criminal associates and my former life of anti-social money grubbing, but the desire to have me released seems to outweigh the desirability of location. I don't really mind I suppose, wherever I go I shall make a success of it, despite what any doubting Thomas may think.
So, provided that nothing goes drastically tits-up between now and my appearance before the board, it's just a matter of time, which could be measured in weeks I shouldn't wonder. Almost twenty-seven years and I am finally on the cusp of shaking off the dust and smell of prison, which I should never have tasted in the first place.
Is that the end of the news?
Not a bit of it.
Last week I had additions to my zoo. Lincoln Prison has closed down its inner city farm, and this place asked for the animals. Although we didn't get them all, what we got were two alpacas and three pygmy goats. I cleared out two stables, with the assistance of a fellow who wouldn't be out of place in "The League of Gentlemen" or Royston Vasey. So now I am in command of three stables in a block and not a horse in sight. The first is the North Sea Camp Rescue Centre, the second is the goat house and the third is the alpaca shed.
We were given to understand that the alpacas were a bit of a handful - truculent and liable to spit. Not a bit of it - they are as good as gold and eat out of our hands. The three goats, Blood, Sweat and Tears, are brilliant - into everything, seem to quite like people and are easy to handle. They eat out of our hands too, not to mention anything else they can get their teeth into. We are feeding them just about anything we can get our hands on - the gardener WILL be pleased when he finds out.
That's where I spend my days now, including Christmas and Boxing Days. It's really pleasant down there - nobody to bother me, a steady stream of tourists coming to view the exotica and an idiot who seems to think keeping gates closed is against his human rights.
So, all things taken into consideration, I had a nice selection of presents for Christmas. I can't complain at all - and not a glimpse of that ould whore Lady Luck nowhere. Next year will be better, so may I take this opportunity to wish all of my friends, and those who have nothing better to do apart from read my weekly drivel, a merry Christmas and a good, sound, prosperous New Year.
Thanks for all the Fish.
The Voice In The Wilderness
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