Letters from India

18 Mar

It’s day 22 and true to promise, I have 22 letters from R. She has written everyday, then emailed the letter to her sister. Her sister is gradually getting acquainted to the postal collection times in her locale as a letter or two arrives to my cell. With yesterday’s letter I receive a pleasant surprise of some of her pals who have padded out the content with words of their own.

Some prisons conduct an email system managed via EmailaPrisoner.com, a useful affordable service where loved ones can send their message online to be collected by the prisoner the following morning. Not Wandsworth, moving with the times is not something it puts at the forefront of it’s management strategy. It’s a shame really as the email system is easier than having to print/write out letters, popping them in an envelope and grabbing stamps. 

It’s nice to have new people to speak to in my letter writing, so I sit down to write back straight away. As I do when it comes to replying to all the letters I receive; I annotate it first to pick out the questions and then get writing while hanging onto the note in my spare mitt.

Writing to my lady love as the primary means of communication is not without its anxieties. I’m writing but am I thinking and writing? Is it dull to read, is my romantic intent wrapped in verbiage? I dread to think that she’s boring already. Her letters keep on coming, so I’m guessing it’s going okay.


Word Count

I asked my mother how many words I’ve written home so far. I’m told its likely many tens of thousands. I do a quick back of the beermat swapped for loo roll calculation and put it near 75,000 words in the diary alone. That is a lot of text for 22 days. I bet people on the outside will remark how quick time flies and all that other nonsense.

Time is relative, I’ve learnt that fast.

22 Days in heaven or a life of expansive opportunity will tick on pretty well. I’d imagine 22 days in Guantanamo Bay Prison, held without charge; would feel like a lifetime. I’m not in either camp but somewhere in the middle. Time drags, but event filled it is.

What have you done in the time I’ve written this?

What have you seen that has fundamentally changed your outlook on wholesale stretches of your life?

Are you happy, are you sad? What do you do each day to bring yourself closer to your own perfect Nirvana?

I want to be content…. so I write.

Poetic discourse

As a teenager growing up in middle England, middle class and right-wing suburbia; your world’s a sheltered place. As I got older, my views softened, with a sense of rationality. To those same neighbourhoods, I grew up around (Not my friends mind), I’m spoilt goods with a liberal, PC agenda.

I tell you…. I’m neither. I’ve just seen a lot more of the world than you have and I got caught for my mistakes. I’ve owned up, but what about you?

Your skeletons in the closet,

your shams, your scams, your anger boils like a flash in the pan.

Fisticuffs at dawn, punch ups and club rucks at 3 in the morn.

Bent Inspectors, ignore Subsidence – for a payout

Professional tax evasion

And treat you’re wife like shit,

But she’ robbing your pocket

until it runs out OR you kick the bucket

Then life insurance pays out.

Subtle form of murder

Mid-life crisis

Only the mid wife spies this

Baby didn’t save it

Bankruptcy brought on by drug prices

Marriage dead.

More scams, more shams

Car crash, what about whiplash?

Then our insurance pays out.


Hotel’s robbed

No bother babe

like a shop window

and those bits you fully well know…. weren’t there

down with the bits that were,

loss adjustor’s then hampered.

Travel journey scamsters

Pay him off or play it safe,

cautious then it’s flawless

Money, to the blind alone its gorgeous

To me,

My Mince pies are working well now, I’m wealthy with nothing but my girlfriend.






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