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Monday: I've spent the last hour at the wing pool table losing badly to some madman from Amsterdam. I didn't imagine there'd be a pool table in maximum security but the prisoners enforce respect for it. No-one wants to lose it because of some idiot. Today is exactly sixteen months since I went into remand, with no end in sight. It's a depressing situation but at least I have some plants in my cell, my own fridge and my own door key, so that's something good I guess. Outside my cell the trees are bursting into flower. But sadly I'll miss yet another summer.
Tuesday: It's 7AM and I'm jolted awake by my door flap sliding open for the morning head check. I wave at the shadowy figure behind and it waves back. This is an ancient cell and it now looks like my old bedroom from when I was a teenager. An old wooden desk, pink wallpaper and art stuff everywhere. I stayed up late last night watching the only English speaking channel on TV, which was an endless re-run of "Homes under the Hammer" and "Tipping Point". Coffee is needed – and then more coffee. I know for a fact that I'll be stuck in here all day so I'll write my diary and munch on the fresh salami and Edam cheese that I got on the weekly buy-up. Lunch will arrive soon. It will probably be beef stroganoff again, but on a real plate and with real metal cutlery. Still, we all complain the knives are too blunt.
Wednesday: My psychologist is here to see me. COVID has really screwed with everyone's head and he wanted to make sure I was OK. People are dropping dead all over the place. Afterward I head to the oval. There's only a dozen of us. One of the guards – an excitable wide-eyed young guy from the north – insists on walking around the oval with me to learn about my experiences living in different countries. He wants to be a world traveller. None of the other inmates raise an eyebrow, seeing as it's in everyone's interest to build such relationships. We all play chess and backgammon with them. We are all called "Mr" and there seems to be very little of the "us and them" attitude here.
Monday: I've spent the last hour at the wing pool table losing badly to some madman from Amsterdam. I didn't imagine there'd be a pool table in maximum security but the prisoners enforce respect for it. No-one wants to lose it because of some idiot. Today is exactly sixteen months since I went into remand, with no end in sight. It's a depressing situation but at least I have some plants in my cell, my own fridge and my own door key, so that's something good I guess. Outside my cell the trees are bursting into flower. But sadly I'll miss yet another summer.
Tuesday: It's 7AM and I'm jolted awake by my door flap sliding open for the morning head check. I wave at the shadowy figure behind and it waves back. This is an ancient cell and it now looks like my old bedroom from when I was a teenager. An old wooden desk, pink wallpaper and art stuff everywhere. I stayed up late last night watching the only English speaking channel on TV, which was an endless re-run of "Homes under the Hammer" and "Tipping Point". Coffee is needed – and then more coffee. I know for a fact that I'll be stuck in here all day so I'll write my diary and munch on the fresh salami and Edam cheese that I got on the weekly buy-up. Lunch will arrive soon. It will probably be beef stroganoff again, but on a real plate and with real metal cutlery. Still, we all complain the knives are too blunt.
Wednesday: My psychologist is here to see me. COVID has really screwed with everyone's head and he wanted to make sure I was OK. People are dropping dead all over the place. Afterward I head to the oval. There's only a dozen of us. One of the guards – an excitable wide-eyed young guy from the north – insists on walking around the oval with me to learn about my experiences living in different countries. He wants to be a world traveller. None of the other inmates raise an eyebrow, seeing as it's in everyone's interest to build such relationships. We all play chess and backgammon with them. We are all called "Mr" and there seems to be very little of the "us and them" attitude here.
Thursday: This is buy-up day and it always screws me up. Eighteen pages of stuff, and all in Dutch. Fortunately, one of the officers usually joins me to smoke cigarettes and talk about religion, so he will help me. I need new summer clothes, maybe some jeans and a light coloured t-shirt. We all have a fridge in our cells so I usually buy fresh meat and veg. There's a whole page of bakery items like cream cakes and fresh baguettes. I think I'll go big on the cheesecake today. Last week I bought a proper stereo system on the buy-up – cheaper than you'd get it in the shops.
Friday: The boss of the wing is called "The Chief" and it's my turn to see him today. We are all encouraged to sit down regularly with the chief in his office, drink coffee and talk about any issues. The communication is good all round. When the Australian bushfires were raging at the beginning of the year they all gave me a "best wishes" card for my family in Sydney. There's an open door policy in the office, meaning we can hang out around the doorway and just chat. Well, they try to chat with me, seeing I speak hardly any Dutch. I've just come back from Education where I teach English to a few prisoners.
Saturday: It's a glorious European spring morning and immediately outside my cell window there's a bustle of Dutch commerce. I watch as people go about their business, downing beers in the café and shouting in Dutch on their mobiles. There is only one prison wall, so all this is happening very close to me. I feel deep sadness.
Sunday: There's a very active church service here on Sundays, partly because everyone gets percolated coffee and home-made carrot cake. I have joined the four-man choir and I play guitar to songs like "Hallelujah" and "You Raise Me Up". The pastor (their version of a chaplain) just spent an hour with me talking about her retirement plans. Sometimes, I could almost like this place.
Thursday: This is buy-up day and it always screws me up. Eighteen pages of stuff, and all in Dutch. Fortunately, one of the officers usually joins me to smoke cigarettes and talk about religion, so he will help me. I need new summer clothes, maybe some jeans and a light coloured t-shirt. We all have a fridge in our cells so I usually buy fresh meat and veg. There's a whole page of bakery items like cream cakes and fresh baguettes. I think I'll go big on the cheesecake today. Last week I bought a proper stereo system on the buy-up – cheaper than you'd get it in the shops.
Friday: The boss of the wing is called "The Chief" and it's my turn to see him today. We are all encouraged to sit down regularly with the chief in his office, drink coffee and talk about any issues. The communication is good all round. When the Australian bushfires were raging at the beginning of the year they all gave me a "best wishes" card for my family in Sydney. There's an open door policy in the office, meaning we can hang out around the doorway and just chat. Well, they try to chat with me, seeing I speak hardly any Dutch. I've just come back from Education where I teach English to a few prisoners.
Saturday: It's a glorious European spring morning and immediately outside my cell window there's a bustle of Dutch commerce. I watch as people go about their business, downing beers in the café and shouting in Dutch on their mobiles. There is only one prison wall, so all this is happening very close to me. I feel deep sadness.
Sunday: There's a very active church service here on Sundays, partly because everyone gets percolated coffee and home-made carrot cake. I have joined the four-man choir and I play guitar to songs like "Hallelujah" and "You Raise Me Up". The pastor (their version of a chaplain) just spent an hour with me talking about her retirement plans. Sometimes, I could almost like this place.
Elections never bring anything good for people engaged in the system.
The thought of spending any time in close contact with Jonny sets my heart racing – and not in a good way.
Each court attendance made me feel sick to my stomach with nervousness as rich strangers decided my husband’s fate – and our future.
Education is not regarded as the most significant risk factor for reoffending but there is an undeniable link between a lack of education and crime.
Help us get About Time off the ground. All donations are tax deductible and will be vital in providing an essential resource for people in prison and their loved ones.
Help us get About Time off the ground. All donations are tax deductible and will be vital in providing an essential resource for people in prison and their loved ones.
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