Pentlands Writers: Mick Armstrong
I am a 50 something senior manager in the Scottish Prison Service, now seconded to the Government as a prison inspector. I graduated with an MBA in 2000. As I worked my way up through the ranks in the English and latterly Scottish prison services I gathered a lot of interesting stories to tell.
As I head gracefully towards retirement I think it is about time I shared some of my experiences of this enclosed world. Stories from prison can often be funny but are also strange, (heard about the chaplain who got done for fraud?) scary or sad. I am trying to expand my skills enough to publish an autobiography. The members of the writing group are very skilful in guiding me through the intricacies of story writing.
I have a comedic style which I hope is easy to read, thought provoking and most of all enjoyable. After all you only live once! I also balanced my prison work out by supporting victims of crime over a 12 year period.
I hope you enjoy my writing on this site, I will endeavour to post fresh pieces every 2 to 300 hits. If you enjoy it please tell your friends! I am also happy to receive feedback. If you are interested in contacting me please email to debanmik@btconnect.com
Autobiography (Extract No. 6) – Fantasy Bed (A Memoir) -
It Hurts To Say Goodbye (A Poem)
The first couple of days of training at HMP Lincoln involved copious note taking included instructions for security of keys, the power of arrest and our entitlements, including a prison service house (quarter). We were told that after this first month at Lincoln we would be spending two months at the officers' training school (OTS) at Leyhill near Gloucester.
Two days in and early starts became the order of the day. At 07.00 we would “parade” with all the other officers, to be checked off against the list of those on duty. Of course the three of us stood there like prunes. Being the only ones not in uniform 1it was obvious that we were the new starts, the ones to be ignored, not allowed keys, a threat to other officers' overtime. Still, we dutifully answered “Sir” in a crisp, enthusiastic manner whenever our names were called out.
Once this formality had been completed there was a security briefing and then everyone had to report to their areas to check numbers and unlock.
It was certainly an eye opener the first time as I accompanied staff onto the landings of B wing.
I was on the 3s (3rd level up) of the gallery type Victorian wing, doing my best to look as though I somehow belonged there, which is quite difficult when you are the only person not wearing a uniform. The order was given to open up and a hive of activity released murderers, burglars, thieves and vagabonds onto the walkways. Suddenly there were 80 to 90 prisoners outnumbering the three staff who were on the landing. Everyone was busy going about their early morning routine and tossing the odd curious look in my direction. I could tell that some characters smelled fresh meat to be played with.
The stench of slopping out reeked from the opened cells, squeezing the air out from every nook and cranny of the wing. Urine and faeces floated precariously past me as I desperately tried to cling on to my digesting breakfast.
I silently prayed that none of it was going to end up sliding down my body from the top of my head.
Some prisoners looked concerned as I turned paler and paler. “Morning boss” some of them called to one or two of the officers and then to me as if acknowledging the pecking order and obviously out of a sense of courtesy. The smell in the sluice area (recess) was overpowering and made me wonder how on earth people could come into prison repeatedly if they had ever experienced this. How they could tolerate having their own waste sitting in a pot in their cell, and then having to empty it out like this, I don't know. Most of them were crammed two or three people into a single cell as well.
No sooner had it started when it was over. Within 30 minutes over 600 prisoners in the jail had been slopped out, given their breakfast and locked up again. Then it was time for the staff to go off for their breakfast. God knows how people could stomach anything after that ordeal but sure enough, when I got to the officers' mess, most officers were tucking into a hearty breakfast. The other new recruits Paul and Nick were in the tea room and were just as shocked and white as I was. Not much was said, but I had the feeling that three young novices had grown up a lot in that 30 minutes of intense activity.
This short introduction was just part of the daily routine but easily the worst part. Thankfully slopping out is now, to all intents and purposes, a thing of the past. This was a Victorian inheritance that took a major building project to eradicate. The English prison service had built in cell sanitation in all of their jails, by the early 1990s. However, I was amazed when I joined the Scottish Prison Service (SPS) in 2002 to find that there was still over a third of the prison population subjected to slopping out.2
1At that time recruits didn't get a uniform until they took up their posting. Presumably this was because all Borstal and some Detention Centre staff did not wear uniform so as to remain less formal when working with young men.
2The SPS ended Slopping out in most prisons in 2007 with the opening of Monro Hall at Polmont, it now exists in only one British prison, Peterhead. This jail was built of granite and it is impossible to carry out the necessary work to alter the structure of the building to fit integral sanitation. Plans are in place to replace Peterhead prison by the year 2012, nearly 20 years behind England.
FANTASY BED (3rd in a series of 3 pieces)
Still a marital bed, maybe a luxury, maybe not. A bed fit for travel, each night falling asleep in a different place.
Perhaps the comfort of a duvet for warmth, or sheets for cool, but always the best feather pillows wherever we lay our heads.
Seeking out the world's four corners may need a mobile berth or it could be a different repose every night. And why not? Who says it has to be the same bed all the time?
A welcome wherever we are, to prepare us for another day of exploration.
I shall sleep well in my bed.
IT HURTS TO SAY GOODBYE EVEN IF IT IS FOR YOUR OWN GOOD
It hurts but not as much as you hurt me, to say goodbye
I need to find myself
You filled me with so much promise, I remember the tingling in my body when we met
The excitement I felt that day and to realise I still feel that way about you
To feel the need to give you one more chance to risk it again
But I know I can't risk it just one more time even though I love you still
It hurt but not as much as you hurt me, you broke my faith in men
I can still smell, taste and feel the first time, the magic of your touch, I crumbled in your arms
The future seemed so rosy as we head into an adventure full of lust
It all seemed to good to be true and it was
Oh how I miss you
The first time was a terrifying shock, to feel the pain, the confusion, the bruises
It hurts but not as much as you hurt me, to realise I am worth more
The apologies were real, a genuine remorse
I had to forgive you, I felt it was my fault
A bit of make up soon made me feel mended though my heart was breaking in two
Then just as I thought it was good it the rage arrived again
Why oh why did you do it? I love you
It hurts but not as much as you hurt me, to know that life will never be the same
The hurt was worse this time but I still had hope
A hope that was dashed time and time again
What is a broken bone or two? You cared so much after, I had to give in
No one understood how on earth I could ever go back
There was no logic only love to take me through the pain
It hurts but not as much as you hurt me, to be starting life afresh
This inevitable time came and went many times, as you begged upon your knee
But then the hurt was deepened to know that I was being betrayed
All the hope I had in turning you around gone in an instant
So, to all the people who have been there for me, I finally see the light
I shed a tear for us as no one could ever fill your shoes but ............
................ at least I found myself at last