Dodgy Art Tutor and a Lingering Gaze

18 May

Finding myself uncomfortable around the art tutor. She holds her gaze longer than necessary. I’d shown an interest in joining her course though it will be 6 or 7 weeks away. She has begun asking my on a daily basis if I can come onto her course yet.

I think she said course.

Today’s written task in my creative writing class involves having to write a short story aimed at a children’s audience. I don’t have the foggiest how to go about this. Give me some low brow topical debate anytime.

I always say prison is different for different people. I’ve become close to a former National Champion of a combat sport here at Ford. He is currently ranked in the top ten of professionals in his weight class in the UK, yet his early days in prison were darkened by sadness and tears. Not a career criminal and another first timer in on a fairly short sentence, prison took him away from his kids, his wife and his happy little life. He won’t be back, maybe prison only works for white-collar offenders 🙂

Or the fear of it. By now, the tears have gone, he just counts down his visits until he can go home. He’s not long left.

Celeb Big Brother is about to begin today and our next door neighbour hands us his tabloid when he’s done reading it. Barnstormer of a night.

A new day

Duvet War over. They say history is written by the victors. So when you’re ready… I shall begin.

I have two duvets on my bed. Tidy!

Spurs are on the box tonight and the Ford prison doctor approves me an SPL – to visit the hospital on my Todd in Chichester to see a melanoma specialist. I thought of a reason to get a visit to a specialist that wouldn’t be catered for on site. Having some errant moles looked at seems like the perfect ruse.

It’s Bank Holiday weekend coming up and the radio stations are covering the Summer festivals. It kills me to hear the line-ups and know of the fun I’m missing. I think about all of those inmates who scarper up to London on their day releases and whether The Notting Hill Carnival will see a surge in absconding. Another 12 slipped out this week gone. 25 in a fortnight! Seriously, that’s a lot of prisoners doing runners.

On the tv tonight, two lads who’ve just left our nick to move up north are featured on an ITV Fraud Documentary detailing Boiler Rooms and how they were snared. It turns out, that one of the two turned informant and grassed on his buddy. I can only imagine how that has gone down up there. To be a fly on the wall when the show aired in their cells. I doubt they will be buddies for much longer.

Later on we receive a letter from the one who buttoned his mouth; apparently his old cohort was getting a rough time. Even in an open prison, it’s got to be a scary place being known as a Grass. No-one likes a grass, all that looking over your shoulder, always waiting for that moment of comeuppance; and when you relax, know that someone you wronged is planning away for that moment some time in the distant future to serve revenge cold. Never forgotten and never forgiven. Being a grass is a dangerous occupation.

R sends me a handwritten note from India. It smells of her perfume. The scent of her seductively escapes the envelope’s surrounds. Inside a little Indian bracelet called a ‘Raki’ awaits to be popped onto my arm. As custom dictates, it should be put on by your love. That’s not possible right now, so I’ll wear it until I see her again. I’ll get her to bung another knot in it when she rocks up at Casa Dave.



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