Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Foreword
Writing For Real
Mark Haddon
26
28
Black Swans
12
15
A Letter To Myself
16 My Pet Rusty
Anonymous, HMP Low Newton
COMMENDED
16 Dear Witch
Jamie Ford, HMP Erlestoke
RUNNER UP
18 The Letter
Anonymous, HMP Parc
RUNNER UP
19 A Letter (To My Doctor)
Denzil Davies, HMP Ranby
COMMENDED
20 A Letter
Cherylin Norrell-Goldsmith,
HMP Downview
RUNNER UP
22
Awoken From
My Big Sleep
Nigel Cranswick,
HMP Lowdham Grange
WINNER
24
32
34 The Slap
Stephen Marsh, HMP Swaleside
RUNNER UP
36 Ireland By Night
Martin Campbell, HMP Buckley Hall
COMMENDED
37 One Boy and a Dog
extracts
Anonymous, HMP Frankland
COMMENDED
38 The Rescue
Stephen Jackley
COMMENDED
extracts
39 Being Green
Anonymous, HMP Frankland
COMMENDED
40 Memoir of a Letter
Anonymous, HMP Maidstone
COMMENDED
41 An African Dream
an extract
an extract
44
Les Misrables
by Victor Hugo - extracts
Anonymous, HMP Perth
COMMENDED
42 The Colour Green
Dean Bennelick, HMP Parc
COMMENDED
Robert Lodge, HMP Holme House
COMMENDED
Most writers start writing because theres something they need to get out
of their heads and onto a piece of paper. They have a story they need to share.
They want to explain themselves. They want to celebrate something. They want
to confess something. They want to get precious memories down on paper
before they vanish forever. Its about self-expression. As every writer in prison
knows, its also a way of escape, into the future, into the past, beyond the walls,
into imaginary worlds.
But good writing really good writing is not something you do just for
yourself but something you do for other people. The real test is to imagine
yourself on stage reading out your work to a group of complete strangers.
Will they laugh? Will they feel sad? Will they be gripped? Will they be
entertained? Its a terrifying thought but thats what good writing is all about,
holding the attention of people you have never met before in your life.
It might seem ridiculous to judge a poem against a piece of memoir and to
judge a piece of memoir against a short story. In truth its the easiest thing in
the world. Does it make you laugh? Does it make you sad? Are you gripped?
Are you entertained? It doesnt happen often but when it does its unmistakable.
Thats what I felt when I read all the entries printed here, and especially when
I read the two winners.
Steven Freemans Story The Gates of Ytan is a strange and beautiful thing,
a not-quite-fable, not-quite-folk tale in a very distinctive style (fox he come in
sharp night, bobbing), a really hard trick to pull off but which he pulls off with
real skill.
Nigel Cranswicks essay, Awoken From My Big Sleep, about Raymond Chandlers
novel The Big Sleep, is proof that simple writing can be incredibly forceful.
Like Chandlers novel its stylish and lean and I was genuinely moved. It was also
one of the few entries which gave me a real sense of what the writers chosen
book was really like. A real lesson in how to write for the reader.
There were over 400 entries for the competition, coming from over 60 prisons,
a huge number. Id like first of all to thank all those writers for taking the risk and
joining in. Id like to thank prison librarians, not just for supporting the competition
but for championing reading and literacy all year round. Id like to thank the
Writers in Prison Network whose support has been invaluable (and whose Arts
Council funding has been taken away). And finally, Id like to thank Irene Garrow
and everyone else at PEN who helped organise the competition and did the initial
round of sorting before a very large box of scripts arrived at my front door.
But what is not right. Fox comes to other, low black river where foul things swim
in their noise and their stink. Food it waits for fox, waits for him on other shore of
terrible black river and fox he is in agony of knowing he must go and knowing he
must not go. Back and fro, back and fro, fox stalks on shore of silent river but there
is no mistake. Smell of living food it whispers to him across bad place, and he even
hears tiny not-far-away rustlings from its feet and its snout and its tail. Come to me
O fox, it laughs at him. Across black river, where fox must never go.
Owl he has catch tonight. Some small food it is making a death song for owl and
owl dances it to high tree places fox never sees. Fox hate owl and makes biting
face, as if to be eating owl and his dinner both, but owl he knows fox does not fly.
Hunger speaks to fox, and he knows indeed what he must do. Forlorn, he glances
back into forest, ears flitching and barbing at every sound. From black river, with
its steady small fires unblinking, comes only a strangeness of silence and new hard
stenches of unknown things long carried away. Upriver, downriver, carried away
in their hateful stink that makes fox his tail droop sadly. A sharp night wind sorts
through moss and bracken and slugs and rottingness and speeds across river to fox,
saying come now, come quick, or food find other stomachs. Fox place forefoot so
unhappily onto hard black river, and starts across.
Midriver comes the sound, from over hill and making hard black river to shake
under fox. He stops, living and alive in every hair of his frame, to look as shape
comes over hill, blinding with its eyes, roaring. For the very briefest of instants,
fox tastes the bitter pang of regret.
cars seemed in an equal hurry, paying little attention to the safety of others.
There were children wandering amidst this maelstrom, lost and neglected.
It seemed to Greene like a gathering of all the worlds evil.
Out of this came a small white dog.
Dexter! Mr Greene cried, recognising the animal as his late pet. However, before the
two could be reunited, the whole scene froze, stopping Dexter mid-bound.
Philip Greene, a voice suddenly said as he stared dumbstruck at his beloved animal.
It was a while before he realised he was being addressed as it had been a long time
since he had been called by his first name. He began to look around for the source.
Philip, the voice repeated and he was shocked to realised it was coming from
the newspaper.
He looked at it and saw his photo was now so alive it was moving. His mouth opened
and closed in an effort to speech, but all that came out was a hoarse whisper.
Philip, the image in the paper said, I would tell you not to be alarmed but I see that
its too late.
Whats going on? Greene asked, hardly believing he was addressing a newspaper.
I am you, but an alternative you, transported here to deliver a warning. The world
you see here is what exists inside your mind, a dangerous place full of terror and
cruelty, as depicted in newspapers in black and white words of woe.
What are you talking about?
Dont speak, let me finish. The heading you saw shows the fate you are currently
heading towards. An inability to see past this vision will leave you to die alone.
Dexter was the last truly colourful aspect of you existence and it died with him.
Now I wonder if you remember what it means to be happy.
What do you want me to do?
Me? Its not up to me. This illusion will soon fade and you will be left once more
with your thoughts. It is then a choice of whether to act on this warning or live
without colour until your demise.
Slowly it did fade. The road cleared and green, blue and red seeped gradually back.
The newspaper blurred and became illegible, all colour gone save for a slight green
tinge. Philip wondered whether it had been a vivid dream but remained convinced it
wasnt. He folded the paper and put it in his pocket. Then, without a second thought
black, white, green or otherwise he walked down his garden path and into his
colourful neighbourhood.
He did so with a huge smile on his face.
Black Swans
John Kellow
HMP Usk
RUNNER UP
The chapel has burnt down.
No more garlands of flowers
or footsteps in the dew.
Grass grows
over ancestral walls.
Black swans
like clouds of rain
through the water
meadows.
Into a land
that has not begun.
The valley where
just tangled poppies
grow on a blackened
road.
I leapt over the style while Tessa scrambled underneath it. Letting her off the
lead, I watched as she bounded over the grass and into the folds of the valley
beyond. It was a bright autumn morning, the wind coming in strong gusts: perfect
for kite flying. Halfway across the field I remembered mother. Looking back, I saw
she was sitting on the style, gazing across the valley at the woods beyond. Her
hand was in her coat pocket, absently fumbling around with something; I barely
gave it a second thought.
Placing the Green Dragon on the grass, I unfurled its tail and took a firm grip
on the handle. The red eyes leered up at me: issuing a challenge I had to take.
Heavy panting alerted me to Tessas presence; poised, waiting, she knew
something was about to happen. A gust of wind came and I ran as fast as I
could down the valley. My heart sank as the kite stubbornly refused to take
flight, bumping and scraping along behind me, barely an inch from the ground.
Everything was against me: the forceful wind, Tessa tangling in my feet, the
doubting voices in my mind. Breathing hard, my legs leaden, I almost gave up.
A tug on my arm alerted me to the take-off. Turning to look back I fell over Tessa;
the Green Dragon soared majestically over the tangled mess of boy and dog.
Scrambling to my feet, I pulled back hard on the handle, watching as the kite
danced upon the wind. Green cloth glinted in the sunshine, long tail flowed
behind; I could sense those red eyes watching me from above. Finally I could be
King Arthur, protecting Camelot as fire and brimstone rained down from above.
Then it was over. The wind dropped, the string went slack, and the Green Dragon
plummeted to the earth: doomed on its maiden flight. A pounding of paws
told me Tessa was on an intercept course; I gave chase, already knowing it was
too late. The kite smashed into the ground and was immediately set upon by a
barking mass of teeth, claws and saliva. By the time I reached the battle scene
there was little left: a few broken tubes, some shreds of green cloth, and Tessa
in the middle of the wreckage trying to look innocent. She earned the title of
Dragonslayer.
I ran back to mother with all the indignant rage an eight-year-old can muster.
On reaching the style I realised shed missed the whole incident: her attention
was fixed on something resting in her lap. I followed her gaze downward; it was
then that I noticed the letter in her hand.
10
12
There were some doubts going round in my young head. Would I crash and
hurt myself? Or could this be the making of me? I had decided to have a go at
riding this bike. I had asked my brother to help me by holding the bike steady
whilst I tried to get it going. We had several attempts at this but I kept falling off
as I could not get my balance. I had begun to feel stupid as I could not do it.
There was talk of using stabilisers, which I would not hear of. After several failed
attempts, I was getting angrier by the minute. I decided to have a break and try
again later. We had some refreshment and I decided to have another shot at
riding this bike. It took me several attempts to get it but I got there eventually.
I had a feeling of pure joy, I was doing it all by myself. I crashed straight in to the
big hedge! I could hear laughter, but I did not care. I had done it! Now the world
was my oyster.
I never knew at the time; that learning to ride this bike was going to change my
life forever! I had started to ride my bike up and down our drive and around our
large garden. This was great fun but a little restricting. I wanted to travel further
afield. I had many types of journeys in to the streets around our home, but my
little bike was not up to the job. This bike was no good as it had the most awful
rubber tyres. So I had to stick to places close to our home. This frustrated me
especially after an accident when I had been thrown over the handle bars.
I was out with my brother and we were racing as I turned to see where he was
I crashed in to a wall and went head over heels. From that point I had lost my
love for this rickety old bike and stopped riding it.
One night my little green bike was stolen from our garden where I kept it.
I was beside myself with shock even though I did not ride it much anymore. It was
agreed by my parents that after the trauma I was to get a new bike from the local
bike shop, despite the fact that we had found my beloved stolen bike in the burn
near my house, missing most of its important parts! That sealed the deal for a new
bike and I went and chose one later that week with my mum and dad. This new bike
was to open up a whole new world of exploration for me. I was later to get a very
good racing bike in my teens which helped me to become a great cyclist.
13
A Letter To Myself
Anonymous
HMP Whitemoor
RUNNER UP
Dear me,
I know where you are, and I know you, as you are me, but a much younger
me. Youve run away from your father and your home. Im writing to tell you its
all right. Youll be running (or is it searching?) for a long time. Right up front I
want you to know no matter what I saw it wont make any difference to you.
I have my own reasons for writing.
I have children now. And every day I look at them, and feel sure that they
too will discover that their dad doesnt know everything; that hes fallible and
one day he will, just like your father now, disappoint them.
I know its impossible to comprehend right now, when your compass is
in an angry spin, and youre running from the heroic centre of your life the
commando trainer; the fighter, the teacher, the boxer, the dancer, the funny,
the leader of the pack the law. The one who, with endless ideas and
enthusiasm, could do and make everything happen.
You swallowed the humiliation because that was the price of a special
life, of following your own path, and in any case you were protected by and
protecting your island, you. Listen, me; that someone so great could change so
much for a thing as stupid as a wounded heart, and the need to be loved you
will not understand that until you are older. Everything changed, because you
changed. The rigid discipline and golden absolutes will be no more, and the
rock-solid realities will turn to dust.
I have absolute confidence, my funny, sad, joyful, bright-eyed,
enthusiastic, over-the-top, way-too-curly-haired (or new-wave curly-haired)
sixteen-year-old-misfit-of-a-self that this wont make one jot of difference to
your restless quest. As Orson Welles will intone on a vinyl record you will find
soon at a junk shop while at drama school I know what it is to be young, but
you dont know what it is to be old. I am telling you all this because now, at
forty-seven years old
I love you, me whatever. As I know youll be thinking to yourself: fortysevenhow boring. But you wont know how untrue that is until you
experience it for yourself and boy you do.
Be safe and well
Me, myself and I
Love
You/Me
x
15
My Pet Rusty
Anonymous
HMP Low Newton
COMMENDED
Im Rusty sitting in the garden looking
at my owner thinking why wont you
make a fuss of me. By rubbing my
belly and making a fuss of me.
By rubbing my belly and stroking my fur.
Please will you feed me and take me for
A walk so that I can get some exercise
By running around the field.
Please will you give my fur a good
brush to make me feel better.
Dear Witch
Jamie Ford
HMP Erlestoke
RUNNER UP
Witch, do this for me;
Find me a moon,
Made of longing;
Then cut it sliver thin,
And having cut it,
Hang it high
Above my beloveds house,
So that she may look up
Tonight,
And see it,
And seeing it, sigh for me
As I sigh for her,
Moon or no moon.
16
The Letter
Anonymous
HMP Parc
RUNNER UP
The letter fell to the floor and landed face up. The worn metal shutter that seals
the letter box clanked shut and swung loosely before it came to a halt and
signalled the beginning of deathly silence.
The lounge door stood ajar, wedged open by a Ladys plaid woollen slipper.
An open packet of McVities digestive biscuits lay against the skirting board and
a scattering of loose crumbs led to several spilled biscuits, one of which lay broken
in pieces.
The Victorian clock sat in pride of place upon the mantle above the original cast
iron fireplace.
The stark contrast of its ornate gold finish on jet casing, flanked by silver candle
sticks, which stood with Grenadier-like pride, filled the senses with surety of the
meticulous uniformity of a bygone era.
Its ticks and tocks hadnt been interrupted since the previous delivery of letters
fell to the welcome mat.
Letters that remain unopened due to the addressees unavoidable absence,
birthday cards which should have been opened, enjoyed and displayed
three days hence.
A newsagents invoice, an easy-clean catalogue and an urgently awaited hospital
appointment for an angiogram lay scattered about the threshold.
The clock ticked and tocked and mocked with precision the tabby cat that paraded
impatiently up and down the windowsill on the other side of the grass.
The clock ticked and tocked and mocked for a further thirty six hours before the
slippers owner was discovered. The coroner recorded a verdict of death by natural
causes, a heart attack.
The ornate Victorian clock shows no movement and hides its mourning with
a tireless precision. It sits in pride of place on a mantle and it mocks a ginger
tom from behind another window now.
18
19
A Letter
Cherylin Norrell-Goldsmith
HMP Downview
RUNNER UP
A page torn out hurriedly
An excited letter written
Thank you Grandma for the birthday present
Its the best I was given!
Coloured paper selected carefully
Perfume sprayed delicately
Loving words written to her brave soldier overseas
Pen poised awkwardly, words written thoughtfully
For the girl he met whilst on holiday
Written with the flush of young romance
Hoping he still has a chance
Tied up with delicate pink ribbon
Its the first time Ive ever seen them
Love letters sent between Granny and Grandad
In the dark years of war
When written love was all most of them had
Another page taken
Folded and in a brown envelope given
Its a final demand for the rent
Two weeks else youll all be in a tent!
She opened the envelope gingerly
Its the letter shes been waiting for
Telling her he knows he was silly
Will she listen to his plea?
Written whilst hes spent time banged up behind his door
Please accept his love, its all hes living for
A letter desperately written
Full of feelings long forgotten
Saying hes so very sorry, he never wanted you to worry
20
21
22
You are left in no doubt that the LA in which Marlowe moves is a dangerous
urban jungle, full of mean characters with nasty attitudes. Marlowe is not
writing about polite society. He is writing about criminals. Marlowe has to be
tough to survive but he retains his sense of humour: Im unmarried because I
dont like policemens wives.
Chandler began writing after a drink problem cost him his job. He was 44
years old. He took a correspondence course in story writing and embarked on
a new career. Philip Marlowe is now the template for gritty crime fiction and
his wisecracking smartass attitude is also echoed through films and TV crime
dramas.
This book brought me out of my literary big sleep and although the crime
fiction genre is often seen as the poor relation to proper literature, it means
the world to me: it got me reading and writing again.
24
26
27
28
after a spate of burglaries with his gang that the law finally caught up with him.
Malcolm was duly sentenced to several years in prison. Alone in a prison cell
and at the lowest point in his life, the young Malcolm had the common sense
and intelligence to realise the error of his ways and at last he saw the light.
He possessed the courage to question objectively his poor lifestyle and the bad
choices he had made thus far. Malcolm realised that life is fundamentally about
the struggle of self. In that struggle, he reasoned, everyone has to figure out
what they want out of life and what their lifes work should entail. Malcolms
answer being a product of racially-defined times during Americas civil rights
era, was to fight with all resolve all forms of prejudice and ignorance, especially
his own. This was in order that no one else would have to bear the burden of
hate and the prejudice that afflicted him all his life, and the injustice as well as
suffering it brought about to many others.
In the end, Malcolm was completely transformed from a very angry,
misguided and worldly person into a selfless, positively-driven and spiritual
man in a righteous struggle for the universal dignity and rights of all humanity
to be recognised in the United States of America. A recognition that all people,
regardless of their diverse backgrounds, are essentially equal and should be
treated equally. Malcolm Xs story therefore never fails to have a positive
impact on all who dare read it. In my case, his autobiography has enabled me
to be critical of my life and failings as a person. Most profoundly, it has made
me also objectively ask what I want out of life as Malcolm did when he was in
prison. Above all, I have come to realise that I need to change my basic mindset
like Malcolm had to. I have to combat my own ignorance and prejudices if I
am to ever successfully steer through the journey that is life. Only then will I
possess the right frame of mind and tools to learn where, when, why and how
I went wrong as a human being, and accordingly understand how to redeem
as well as reclaim my lost humanity. This is more or less what is conveyed in
The Autobiography of Malcolm X and it certainly is a true universal narrative
about the human condition at its worst and its best. It is a story about life and
the vast possibilities it entails when we make the right choices. Malcolms life
is an example of our shared propensity to endure the most severe hardship
and challenges we encounter in life. His biography reflects, as our lives do,
our capacity to transform our own ignorance into enlightened wisdom and
so undergo self-improving change. Ultimately, it showcases our possession
of courage in the face of the greatest of all trials our own failure and our
capacity for redemption thereafter against even the greatest of odds.
29
31
32
And when the last page of a novel is turned we should feel bereft. In many ways
like spending an intense weekend with a lover: you feel better for having spent
the time together, youre sorry to see them go, and yet so very relieved to have
your life back again.
Then take a deep breath, visit your local library or bookshop, and start
scanning the shelves, like a desperate speed dater, to choose your book-date
for the next weekend of literary hedonism. Never underestimate the power of
the written word.
The Slap
Stephen Marsh
HMP Swaleside
RUNNER UP
A book that almost legitimises hitting a three-year-old child doesnt sound a
great read but The Slap by Christos Tsiolkas is exactly that.
When Harry slaps a child called Hugo at a friends barbeque, surrounded by
dozens of witnesses, who are friends of both parties involved, then divisions of
loyalty rise to the surface.
It almost comes down to two points of view, either you should never hit a child or
the annoying brat deserved it.
This book goes further than that. It takes the point of view from eight separate
people, some of whom are related to Hugo or Harry and some who just happened
to be at the party as guests.
Where the author has been intelligent is that he doesnt use those eight people
purely as witnesses to the assault. He takes us on a journey of their lives,
problems and secrets outside of the incident, and then lets us see how seeing a
child being slapped by an adult affects their decision-making on, sometimes,
life-changing moments.
There are practical moments in the book such as legal proceedings, but that
almost becomes a by-product as the tales of the people involved take over.
This is also the most multi-cultural book Ive ever read. It is set in Australia but
the entire world seems to have taken refuge in this corner of Melbourne.
There are mixed-race marriages, same-sex relationships and people from every
area of the globe and sometimes I felt the author was trying too hard to appeal
to everyone.
Connie is a teenage girl that steals the book for me, and my feelings for her
changed throughout the book from being supportive to actively being against
her, and also confusion. She is a very strong-willed young lady combined with
all the self-doubt a teenager possesses and who impacts on many lives by her
actions and non-actions.
All the characters offer such a lot in their own right and sometimes it is difficult
to know if they are a villain or hero.
34
It is a book that makes you think about your life decisions and experiences and
how your life could have been different if different paths had been followed.
It also makes you realise that what you thought was a minor decision could have
turned out to be just the opposite.
It will divide opinions on many subjects including abuse, infidelity, alcoholism,
mixed marriages, homosexuality, parenting and friendships and that is not an
exhaustive list.
This is a book that will provoke discussion through the years as all the classics
eventually do.
Ireland By Night
Martin Campbell
HMP Buckley Hall
COMMENDED
Were going up the road
with a full car load and
the boys are singing in the back,
fish and chips and skinny dips,
Guinness by the old turf fire,
kissing girls and holding hands,
tomorrow a day trip to Bloody Foreland.
Old men smoking pipes
talking in Irish with great delight
I was young just like you
back in 1942,
I sailed the seas by night and day
and now Im ready for the clay.
So say your prayers at night my son
And dont come home
till a hard days work is done.
The cock crows and I awake,
stuck behind a prison gate,
fourteen more hours to go,
then I can dream about Mary from Dunloe.
I will fill my day as best I can,
then as I lay my head,
I will dream of my green homeland.
36
37
38
Being Green
Anonymous
HMP Frankland
COMMENDED
Black cormorants flying in a V formation in the azure sky on the first frosty
morning of the year. Magpies play on the freshly cut green grass, others dance
in the air, one seemingly clinging halfway up a razor-wired fence staring up, and
another one on top of a security camera attached to a forty-foot pole. In the
distance, a wake of a fighter jet with the sun glinting on its silver tail and here in
this prison with Lifers who are never getting out. The sense of the clash of the seen
freedom and the cooped-up-ness in here. It makes one wonder and stifling a silent
scream becomes easy because prison is a total distraction.
My distraction was a gull gliding through the sky. It was unlock about half an hour
ago. On the landing prisoners are talking about the Everton football match yet to
be played. One prisoner is standing at his cell door wearing a baseball cap, one is
doing the cleaning, others are wandering around aimlessly and Im thinking about
two horses running in Ayr later on which I got from Radio 4 at 7.20am. And some
prison officers are talking about the Lake District whilst drinking coffee at their
table. The known self-harmers exit from their cell looking cool and live in hope for
another day without bad thoughts. Newspapers arrive and are promptly delivered.
Prisoners begin to discuss the days television viewing, but no-one mentions her on
the page with her breasts out. Those thoughts are held down. Its a taboo subject,
a private issue for another day at night-time when alone.
We get locked up so the officers can go for something to eat and the wing
becomes quiet. A cell becomes like a moored ship in the harbour and the
occupant has to create some noise to stimulate the senses. Prison is definitely no
Friends Meeting House.
We get opened up again and the afternoon passes by with cheers because a
football team has scored. Prisoners meander around the wing in deep thought.
Staff are vigil; theres no sound of laughter except, on this occasion, from a female
officer. Many female officers work in male jails nowadays. I enjoy the racing at
Ayr on telly.
Its tea-time and we are all locked up again till tomorrow. After that the wing turns
silent. And the only noises are the quiet whispers because another aspect of prison
life has awoke.
The monotony of prison life is like a merry-go-round that never stops. Some
prisoners even sleep with their television or radio on all night. I think of the sky.
39
Memoir of a Letter
Anonymous
HMP Maidstone
COMMENDED
When I was a child I cannot remember receiving letters through our letterbox
at home addressed to me. The thought of receiving a letter never even entered
my head as a child. There was no text messaging, emails or internet during my
childhood and mobile phones were the stuff of science fiction so to keep in touch
with someone you had three choices visit them in person, telephone them on a
landline or telephone box, or if it was not urgent you could write a letter and post it
in a post box.
As a child, who could I write to? I did once write to Father Christmas asking for a
bike and I put the letter in a cardboard post box that was in my school classroom.
I didnt get a bike for Christmas so my faith in writing letters was low. Christmas
and birthday cards tended to be hand-delivered so I missed out on these delights
coming through my letterbox. Even now, many years later, I can remember receiving
the first ever official letter addressed to me. My name and address were typed not
hand-written. Being typed made it extra special as I knew it was not from family or
friends as they would not type. I felt really grown up as it was addressed to Master.
My Dad said it was like putting Mister in front of an adults name and Master was
the junior version. It was my first junk mail. I was thrilled.
When I left school I suddenly felt like an adult, especially when I received a letter
with my National Insurance number in it. I opened a bank account for the first time
and the bank sent me a letter containing a cheque book and cash machine card.
These letters announced my arrival into the adult world but they also brought with
them responsibilities which, as a child, I didnt have to worry about.
As I grew older, I received letters which charted my life driving licence, college,
university, passport, employment, bank, credit cards, loans, mortgage, gas,
electricity, council tax etc. More and more of the letters I received were about
financial matters and about money I owed. I never seemed to get letters saying
someone owed me money.
Letters became something to dread as they never seemed to contain good news.
The internet arrived along with mobile phones, text messaging and emails. I was
being bombarded by junk mail trying to sell everything from Timeshare holiday
homes to pills that enhance my love life. I had emails from helpful Nigerians telling
me their government could give me money for a small upfront fee. I received less
and less paper letters in the post as they were now going the technological route.
I used to dread letters dropping through my letterbox. That became dreading
letters dropping in my email inbox. Technology made me contactable 24 hours a
day. Things were getting bad when I started dreaming about missing emails while I
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was asleep. I may have become a bit obsessive about constantly checking to see if I
have any new emails or texts.
In a funny way it was a relief when I came to prison. I no longer had the worry of
having to check my emails or texts. I didnt have the anxiety of making sure my
mobile phone was charged up and had credits. It was back to basics of pen, paper
and landline prison phone. The stress of being contactable at any time vanished.
I didnt have to convince a window telesales person that I was happy with my
existing windows. I wasnt woken up at 3am by my mobile phone beeping that a
text arrived saying I can have 10% off cat food.
I still dread getting letters, especially from probation, but at least no one is
demanding money.
I actually smiled when I got my first piece of junk mail while in prison.
Some things never change.
COMMENDED
As we sit in the warm, musical darkness with only the shadows flickering from the
comforting fire we talk of things long past and the things that are yet to come.
In this distant wild land we find a place of peace where there are no prying eyes,
no wagging tongues, no disappointment of that which has been lost. There is
only the silence and the smell of Africa which conjures up ideas of excitement, of
opportunity of something different and more worthwhile.
The fireflies are busy swooping and flickering around the pools of light as we drink
our final nightcap, a fine old brandy which leaves a wonderful aftertaste of oak and
spice. Slowly we walk towards the snowy white canvas of our sleeping tent happy
in the knowledge that tomorrow is another day, and it will be another day in Africa.
The morning comes with a burst of golden light which gives everything an
unearthly glow. Slowly the shadows fade and again the vast green plains of Africa
stretch before us. Today is another day of travel through this ever-changing and
vital landscape, and by the evening we hope to have reached the foothills of the
distant mountains. There at long last we shall begin our search for the elusive and
most prized of all Africas multitude of bounty, her sparkling green diamonds.
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gusted all year. The atmosphere was cooling now, but throughout the day the
summer sun had urged its heat deep into the earth, now still warm underfoot.
The air in the wood was calm, too sleepy to move the leaves that elegantly draped
the branches. The potent scent of grass and moss-covered bark defied gravity to
hang in the air.
The sun was low above the horizon as I rambled to the top of the hill where the
dazzling light of the early evening sun skated low across the terrain, casting long
crooked shadows. For a moment my heart stopped as, through the still air, intense
rays of light skimmed along the ground from where penetrating shards of green
light reflected off the grass and flashed through the lush foliage. I was struck by
an explosion of light which ambushed my senses and, through squinted eyes, the
wood looked like it was decorated with diaphanously-thin translucent shapes
wrought from the colour green, enigmatically familiar.
The rush of senses was almost audible, as if the whole realm resounded in
chromatic thunder. The green of the tableau reminded me of the green eyes of the
vagrant that yesterday had said, Help save a life, and left me alive without you.
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