I wouldn't call it depression, not really, because I know through Anita's depressive states how it manifests itself. No, it isn't depression, I don't think so, but I haven't been able to get myself motivated.
Perhaps the death of Dave English is playing on my subconscious. Even with my experience of counselling I didn't notice the exterior signs of problems that would drive him to suicide.
I try to remind myself of the support that I do have and how it has helped me to stay strong. I am amid one of the inevitable black moods that I face every week.
Whatever it is I'm experiencing, I wouldn't call it depression. I fully believe that when I can return to work in the library my usual hopefulness will bounce back.
- Roger Gordon
Monday 23 February 2009
Sunday 15 February 2009
Walls within walls
I put in a request to see the doctor this week and as I am now back at work too, I hope to be back up to my usual optimistic self. I also requested an audience with my 'personal officer', the officer assigned to know me better. 
I hope to get some confirmation on the status of this new wing, my new home. Will it be C Category, as the establishment hopes? It's important for my record that I am seen to be perfectly safe in a C Category place.
Of course, wouldn't you know, the officer is on sick leave. Seems to be no end of brick walls.
I was thinking this morning of Dave English, the fellow who hanged himself the other day. Strange, can't say why it is, but I think of him as Mr English. Maybe it is the way he treated people. Always the gentlemen, even to those who would find it difficult to understand words like please and thank you.
Dave was a strange mixture. Physically, well, to be kind, he looked a real skinhead yob. But talk to him, and he was polite and sociable, and there was nothing to suggest that he was about to do himself in.
Poor old Dave, poor old Mr English. I don't feel that his death has troubled me – in these dungeons we seem to live constantly with death (or something you couldn't call life), but who knows what the subconscious suffers.
- Roger Gordon
I hope to get some confirmation on the status of this new wing, my new home. Will it be C Category, as the establishment hopes? It's important for my record that I am seen to be perfectly safe in a C Category place.
Of course, wouldn't you know, the officer is on sick leave. Seems to be no end of brick walls.
I was thinking this morning of Dave English, the fellow who hanged himself the other day. Strange, can't say why it is, but I think of him as Mr English. Maybe it is the way he treated people. Always the gentlemen, even to those who would find it difficult to understand words like please and thank you.
Dave was a strange mixture. Physically, well, to be kind, he looked a real skinhead yob. But talk to him, and he was polite and sociable, and there was nothing to suggest that he was about to do himself in.
Poor old Dave, poor old Mr English. I don't feel that his death has troubled me – in these dungeons we seem to live constantly with death (or something you couldn't call life), but who knows what the subconscious suffers.
- Roger Gordon
Sunday 8 February 2009
Dave had enough and hanged himself
We were all surprised to hear that Dave English had done himself in. He was a young fellow and good proof of the old story that you can't judge a book by its cover. He was no handsome face and tattoos everywhere didn't help. But we always exchanged a few words when we passed on the stairs. He seemed, well, quite likeable.
You can usually tell when a fellow's had enough and is likely to do himself in. Dave may not have looked the best example of God's handiwork - ears for sailing downwind, a sort of all-over nose, a flaring sort of complexion - but he didn't look like someone who was troubled by God's lack of attention. He seemed to know what's inside, in the heart, is what matters.
When we heard of the details of his case - alleged to have fired some shots at the cozzers when he was stopped on a stolen motorbike - you're left wondering if the Right hasn't offered a bit of Old Testament thinking.
But we heard, too, that he had been digging away for some time at the ceiling around the light fitting, to give himself something to swing on. There's an inquiry being conducted by the Independent Monitoring Board. We won't expect much of an outcome from that.
Poor old Dave. I won't say he'll actually be sadly missed. He was a lifer with hardly more than a prison future to look forward to. But it is sad when a fellow human leaves, especially in such an agonising way. It can't be fun to hang yourself. You kick away the stool and the rope starts crushing. You might think, too late, it was a mistake. Let's hope he wasn't tortured for ages, that the end wasn't slow in coming.
- Roger Gordon
Links:
About David's death
Dave's conviction
You can usually tell when a fellow's had enough and is likely to do himself in. Dave may not have looked the best example of God's handiwork - ears for sailing downwind, a sort of all-over nose, a flaring sort of complexion - but he didn't look like someone who was troubled by God's lack of attention. He seemed to know what's inside, in the heart, is what matters.
When we heard of the details of his case - alleged to have fired some shots at the cozzers when he was stopped on a stolen motorbike - you're left wondering if the Right hasn't offered a bit of Old Testament thinking.
But we heard, too, that he had been digging away for some time at the ceiling around the light fitting, to give himself something to swing on. There's an inquiry being conducted by the Independent Monitoring Board. We won't expect much of an outcome from that.
Poor old Dave. I won't say he'll actually be sadly missed. He was a lifer with hardly more than a prison future to look forward to. But it is sad when a fellow human leaves, especially in such an agonising way. It can't be fun to hang yourself. You kick away the stool and the rope starts crushing. You might think, too late, it was a mistake. Let's hope he wasn't tortured for ages, that the end wasn't slow in coming.
- Roger Gordon
Links:
About David's death
Dave's conviction
Wednesday 4 February 2009
Yours Truly gets a new pad
Strange the way things happen. Here's your correspondent with desperation to move to another prison at the top of his To Do list. Well, disregard for a moment the fact that I shouldn't be here. (The jury was misled and here I am.)
I'm trying to cope with the system as best I can. And because of good behaviour and doing the right courses, I am now recategorised as a C category candidate. That means I am entitled to go to a C Category prison. And moving into better accommodation is what I have been trying to do, as you'll know from my blogs.
It must count as almost a miracle, but I am writing to you suddenly from C Category quarters. And I'm writing with one arm longer than the other to prove the move.
What happened is that this very busy nick built a brand new wing and called it C Category and invited Yours Truly to lodge in a 'room' there. Hence the long arm as I staggered out of the block and along corridors and into the new building, G Wing, lugging five huge packages of all I own in the world.
I wonder how an estate agent would market my new home? I am lucky enough to have the luxury of a toilet moulded into the wall, removing the need for a lid, which of course is hardly a necessity for a man who cannot leave the room.
The same modern thinking no doubt brought the decision to do away with a cupboard door. Perhaps the thought is that it will encourage trust. Perhaps they believe that in a thieves kitchen everything is safe. I'm afraid I have news for them. If you - or they - see me with my arms spread wide blocking access to the cupboard, please don't be surprised.
Despite that stretched arm, I did feel pretty good when I had moved in lock and stock, if not barrel. I got everything - everything! - stowed away in about 35 seconds flat and sat down, adjusted the radio aerial for its new place in the dwelling, all ready for a relaxed cuppa. I went to pour a cup that cheers and somehow knocked over my brand new flask.
It exploded, shattering the innards into a zillion shards. The first broken vacuum in G wing, and even before I had the chance to display it in the doorless cupboard.
I can't claim for it the honour of being the first smashed flask of the only part of this busy, historic prison to be C Category because it's really only a pretend C-Cat. It needs the government to make a decree, and once they have us banged up, prisoners are not high on the politicians' priority list.
- Roger Gordon
I'm trying to cope with the system as best I can. And because of good behaviour and doing the right courses, I am now recategorised as a C category candidate. That means I am entitled to go to a C Category prison. And moving into better accommodation is what I have been trying to do, as you'll know from my blogs.
It must count as almost a miracle, but I am writing to you suddenly from C Category quarters. And I'm writing with one arm longer than the other to prove the move.
What happened is that this very busy nick built a brand new wing and called it C Category and invited Yours Truly to lodge in a 'room' there. Hence the long arm as I staggered out of the block and along corridors and into the new building, G Wing, lugging five huge packages of all I own in the world.
I wonder how an estate agent would market my new home? I am lucky enough to have the luxury of a toilet moulded into the wall, removing the need for a lid, which of course is hardly a necessity for a man who cannot leave the room.
The same modern thinking no doubt brought the decision to do away with a cupboard door. Perhaps the thought is that it will encourage trust. Perhaps they believe that in a thieves kitchen everything is safe. I'm afraid I have news for them. If you - or they - see me with my arms spread wide blocking access to the cupboard, please don't be surprised.
Despite that stretched arm, I did feel pretty good when I had moved in lock and stock, if not barrel. I got everything - everything! - stowed away in about 35 seconds flat and sat down, adjusted the radio aerial for its new place in the dwelling, all ready for a relaxed cuppa. I went to pour a cup that cheers and somehow knocked over my brand new flask.
It exploded, shattering the innards into a zillion shards. The first broken vacuum in G wing, and even before I had the chance to display it in the doorless cupboard.
I can't claim for it the honour of being the first smashed flask of the only part of this busy, historic prison to be C Category because it's really only a pretend C-Cat. It needs the government to make a decree, and once they have us banged up, prisoners are not high on the politicians' priority list.
- Roger Gordon
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