I live in a world that shakes. It is imperceptible from the outside, but inside I flicker like a leaf buffeted by the wind. Not always, but often. I’m not sure why exactly, but I can hazard a guess. Today I am also gurning like a speed freak because the barista ignored the “de” part of my “caf” order.

I look and feel as if I’ve got a bad case of the DT’s. I roll with it. I cook in advance for the entire week, clean the bathroom, hoover up a storm and basically get down and dirty with all the little household jobs that I have been ignoring on the assumption that my remaining resident child will probably not notice the state of the skirting boards. My non-resident child is traveling in Vietnam but when I catch a glimpse of anyone with pale blue hair, my heart starts suddenly awake, alive with foolish optimism.

Caffeine is a revelation. Okay, the shaking is vaguely disturbing but the house looks great. I expect I’ll crash at some point because artificial energy stimulation, albeit from a relatively benign and legal source, is tantamount to sticking a plaster over the empty sign on a fuel tank and carrying on driving.

It’s like toothpaste. You can go on extracting stuff long after you first believed the tube to be empty but then, inevitably, one day there really is nothing left and you must live with un-freshness until you finally remember to negotiate the toiletries aisle.

I don’t want to end up like that mangled metal tube, knotted and bent out of all recognisable shape. I’m tired and emotionally wrung out but life doesn’t stop on compassionate grounds. It carries on squeezing.

Toothpaste is dual functioned in the slammer, doubling as a surprisingly effective glue. It is a rare cell whose walls are not be-speckled with calcified Colgate or Crest in various constellations where once was displayed another man’s family or perhaps his fantasy: The Sun is a prison stalwart, passed in hierarchical sequence from man to man, its third page a moment of escapism in a relentless world of men.

Rob refuses to risk damaging the cards that Tala sends him by affixing them thus to the wall. Blue Minty Gel is infinitely less sympathetic to paper than Blu Tack and he treasures her missives: arrows of love sent from her world to his. Today he is upset because he has been refused delivery of her latest offering. We try to work out why. There is no rhyme or reason to it. Is it the thickness of the card? Something in the content?

What comes into or out of prison depends largely on the disposition of whoever is on post duty that day. I’m not sure how to navigate these constantly shifting sands in order to avoid future disappointment.  I do know this though. Tala spends hours drawing and writing those cards and if I hear Liz Truss utter the words “family” and “support” in the same sentence again when she is talking about my world, I’ll scream.

Most of the petty cruelties and indignities, to which prison families are subjected as they try against all odds to maintain relationships with the incarcerated, are the side effects of unsuccessful attempts to stop the flow of drugs into prison. Without exception Her Majesty’s Prisons are flooded with narcotics, brought in by drone, guard, prisoner, letter and visitor. All that happens when supply is squeezed is that the price goes up, for which read increased debt and violence. This week the MOJ claimed that prisoners take drugs because they can order them on their phones. Hmnnn, best not ruin 83 crack-free years for Grandma by getting her a smart phone for her birthday then…

It doesn’t take a genius to deduce that the only way to stem the flow of drugs into prison is to decrease demand or that the only way to decrease demand is to treat addition, which is not at all the same thing as cutting off supply.

One of the most depressing things about prison is the lack of individual recognition or solutions. Everything is reduced to the lowest possible denominator. Hooch is a problem? Ban fruit. Drugs an issue?  No more phones… or letters…, or human contact… for anyone. Lock everyone down, put everyone on a perfunctory course. Tick the bloody box. Never look below the surface or invest in a long term solution. Our current response to addiction, which is to criminalise it and try (always unsuccessfully) to intercept the product, is laughably shortsighted. What do we expect to happen when prisoners are released?

Best follow the advice of the Daily Mail then, the genius publication unread inside prison, which claims that us lefty liberals who argue that prison doesn’t work are ignoring the fact that if someone is locked up they can’t commit a crime. This isn’t true of course. There are plenty of crimes committed inside, but only against other criminals (who don’t count), or themselves (good riddance) or the guards (never mind). This reductive view also fails to take into account the fact that locking people up in perpetuity will either bankrupt the country or necessitate the reintroduction of the death penalty for anyone serving over 5 years.

If we really cared about our society we would ban diesel vehicles and address diabetes, but we don’t. We just love locking people up, and then squeezing and squeezing until there is nothing left.