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gym
this afternoon as I have to attend a CARAT (Counselling, Assessment, Referral,
Advice and Through-care) meeting on drugs. This is another part of my
induction. Despite the fact I’ve never touched a drug in my life, I can’t
afford to miss it. Otherwise I will never be moved from this filthy, dank,
noisy wing. Naturally I comply.
2.00 pm
    I try to pick up my books and notepads from reception only
to be told by Mr Meanwell (a man who regularly reminds me ‘Meanwell is my name,
and mean well is my nature’) that I can’t have them because it’s against prison
regulations. All notepads and pens have to be purchased from the canteen and
all books ordered through the library, who buy them
direct from Waterstone’s.
    ‘But in Belmarsh they allowed me to have two notepads, two
packets of pens and any number of books I required sent in, and they’re a
maximum-security prison.’
    ‘I know,’ says Meanwell with a smile. ‘It’s a damn silly
rule, but there’s nothing I can do about it.’
    I thank him. Many of the senior officers know only too well
what’s sensible and what isn’t, but are worried that if I receive what could be
construed as special treatment it will be all over the tabloids the following
morning. The rule is enforced because books, pads and pens are simply another
way to smuggle in drugs. However, if I’m to go on writing, I’ll have to
purchase these items from the canteen, which means I’ll need to cut down on
Spam and Weetabix.
2.40 pm
    I’ve been writing for about an hour when I am called to the
CARAT meeting. Once again, eleven of us assemble in the room with the
comfortable chairs. The CARAT representative is a young lady called Leah, who
tells us that if we have any drug-related problems, she is there to advise and
help. Leah reminds me of Mr Flintcroft, although she’s pushing an even larger
boulder up an even steeper hill.
    I glance around the room at the other prisoners. Their faces
are blank and resigned. I’m probably the only person present who has never
taken a drug. The one comment Leah makes that catches the prisoners’ attention
is that if they were to have a period on D wing, the drug-free wing, it might
even help with their parole. But before Leah can finish her sentence a ripple
of laughter breaks out, and she admits that it’s possible there are even more
drugs on D wing than on A, B or C. Drug-free wings in most prisons have that
reputation.
    When Leah comes to the end of her eight-minute discourse and
invites questions, she is greeted with silence, the same silence Mr Flintcroft
experienced.
    I leave, feeling a little more cynical. Drugs are the
biggest problem the Prison Service is currently facing, and not one prisoner
has a question for the CARAT representative, let alone attempts to engage her
in serious debate. However, I am relieved to observe that two inmates remain
behind to have a private conversation with Leah.
6.00 pm
    Kit change. Once a week you report
to the laundry room for a change of sheets, pillowcases, towels and gym kit. I
now have six towels and include four of them in my weekly change. They are all
replaced, despite each prisoner only being allowed two. However, they won’t
replace my second pillowcase because you’re allowed only one. I can’t
understand the logic of that.
    You’re meant to wash your own personal belongings, but I
have already handed over that responsibility to Darren, who is the enhanced
wing’s laundry orderly. He picks up my bag of washing every Thursday, and
returns it later that evening. He asks for no recompense. I must confess that
the idea of washing my underpants in a sink shared with someone else’s dirty
cutlery isn’t appealing.
6.30 pm
    Supper. Unworthy
of mention.
7.00 pm
    Exercise. I walk round the
perimeter of the yard with Darren and another inmate called Steve. Steve was convicted
of conspiracy to murder. He is an accountant by profession, well spoken,
intelligent and interesting company. His story turns