Still Here!

 Well, of course I am (still here) - given that I would prefer to sell up, move on and put this expensive place behind me, I realise that would cause huge conflict, enormous expense and, anyway, I actually like my little family.

Yesterday was a quiet day, but I'm aware that the main cause of that was X's enormous hangover - at least 8 or 9 'tinnies' imbibed does tend to have that effect. Needless to say my guard is still 'up': drinking and gambling (not to mention drug abuse) is by no means cured in a day.

FYI this problem began in 2015.  There ensued a period of something we like to refer to as an 'enforced holiday': a 'vacation' entirely paid for at her majesty's pleasure'. Let me tell you it was horrible, truly horrible. Being searched and fingerprinted to enter the not-so-wondefrful establishments of (as our American friends would call them ) correction, when one has done nothing wrong but wishes to visit one who has, is an awful experience. I should add that it helped in no way at a all: such places may claim to upholod the law, but drugs, alcohol (and other vices) are easily sourced in such establishments and it is quite likely that this experience did my beautiful X more harm than good. I wrote this short (true) story after one such visit:

It was cold day in December 2017. We arrived in plenty of time to eat sandwiches (lunch) in the car before registering our arrival. We then wait to be called from the waiting room, full of people of all ages, shapes and sizes, including several young and playful children scampering about and, at the same time, wringing silent sympathy from me; some even wearing their Christmas jumpers. The waiting room is, at least, warm; but this only makes the outside seem colder. Then we pass slowly and laboriously through the security system; mildly unpleasant as well as cold for me: I leave my coat in the car not wishing to be further delayed on my return home by having to wait for the queue to the lockers to die down. I cautiously read the various security warnings which are wholly disconcerting, some hard to believe that they are a reflection of the facts and experience gained by the staff here, and serve only to make me feel slightly more uncomfortable (given that discomforting thoughts are a perfectly natural part of such journeys), tentatively admire the unexpected works of art, made by residents here, on display behind glass panels: mainly metalwork. My thoughts go from admiration to disbelief. I am in a world for which I am not only unprepared, and, thinking those exact thoughts, realise that I was anything but remiss in not preparing for it. And yet somehow I feel the very mildest tinge of guilt.

After a partly surreal but nevertheless enjoyable couple of hours we formed a line to make our exit, which took at least 20-25 minutes, we found ourselves outside in the dark, cold early evening and were spoken to by a young woman whom I guessed to be in her early thirties. I politely enquire how long her journey home would take. ‘Three bloody hours’ she said, somewhat disdainfully. My wife and I find that tiny connection which can be made under such circumstances, and divulge that we too have a similar journey ahead: we are going south, the young lady is going to Liverpool. The whole event is a full day out, and for some who may live even further away, it may be a case of finding somewhere to stay: adding insult to injury. It’s not even as if the building, or the surrounding environment, are attractive to look at. Dull weather suits it admirably. 

There is a clear, though intangible, meeting of minds as our conversation with the young woman continues. None of the three of us really want to be there, and for very similar reasons we are sad to leave. The culprit and producer of all these feelings is, to coin a phrase, a crazy little thing called love. The main (and final ‘exit’) door has yet to be opened, and so an amicable conversation, albeit with somebody we have never before met nor would (under normal circumstances) ever be likely to meet, continues in that matter-of-fact and not at all unpleasant way.

“This is a bloody awful place”, she tells us and then goes on to let us know that she has been told by her father that she is mad. Our quizzical faces leave no requirement for us to verbalise the question on our lips. “Ten years I’ve been doing this now. I met him when I was sixteen and I’m thirty now”. (On our way home my wife voices my own thought which is to say no wonder her dad thinks she’s potty.) She continues “in the fourteen years we’ve been together he’s been in and out of prison for ten of those years”. We ask the obvious question which, no doubt, has already been posed by her father many, many times. “He’s me feller,” she states quite simply, in her lilting Liverpudlian accent. “And this place - supposed to be a working prison and he’s never ‘ad a day’s work since he’s been here. Bloody awful place.”  We silently concur.

We nod, understanding almost exactly how she is feeling. Our visit too has provided us with eerily similar information and the knowledge that the residents see very little fresh air, which shows in their skin - partly because there are not enough ‘jobs’ to take them into it (the fresh air), partly because they have almost no motivation to do anything other than eat, sleep and watch TV. I worry continually (fortunately not continuously) about drugs, but our visits have not given us any evidence to confirm such fears: the one we visit has always been pleased to see us, always been lucid, lively and conversationally good company. We learn that drugs are a consistent part of life there - and very easily obtained, but have been wholeheartedly eschewed by our loved one. I am grateful for that, but still worry! It turns out that the jobs and the courses (some of which have obviously produced the rather good artworks seen on display as we entered) go to those who are very, very long-term residents. We silently, and jointly I guess, think how fortunate - and then I laugh silently and not a little bitterly at the thought - that for us this could all be over within less than twelve months. This is only our 12th visit and a further 14 or 15 just might see us able to put the experience behind us.

I spot and pick up a dirty penny on my way to the car while my wife joins the inevitable queue for the ‘Ladies’. I silently pray that it will bring me the luck promised in one of my late Mum’s many ‘sayings’. I miss her of course particularly at times like these, and yet am thankful that she missed this. Worse things almost certainly do happen at sea (one of Mum’s favourite sayings), I think, and then concentrate on the journey home and where we might stop for a bite to eat in the freedom we enjoy: a freedom which is partly suspended and temporarily curtailed. It is very obvious to me that a prison sentence falls not only on the one ‘found guilty’. We do not think it is our fault, but that tinge of guilt…. I should add that the food there, I gather, is not at all bad. I inwardly wish the young woman from Liverpool well. 

I am currently enjoying a cup of tea as I type - and so am calm and my usual 'cup-half-full self'.