The fox who lives underneath my garden shed has cubs. I spend so long watching them tumbling skittishly over each other in the midday sunshine that they become quite unperturbed by my voyeurism. They strew the garden with litter, jump on all the plant pots and smell pretty rank, but I feel too kindred with their mother to evict them. She grooms them all meticulously yet looks moderately bored with the whole thing and rather as if she’d prefer be out on the town rummaging through recycling boxes… but perhaps I’m projecting?

It’s a year to the day since Rob’s conviction. My little cub needs minding so I stay home and break out a packet of chocolate corn cakes. I know how to celebrate. They say the first year is the worst, and although we aren’t even a quarter of the way up this mountain, when I turn and look back I can see that there is distance behind me, and I’m still standing.

As if to mark this ignoble anniversary Rob’s yoga mat finally clears security, it’s vivid purple sponge incongruous in the cell. The sight of it jolts him uncomfortably back to an old life he does his best to forget: it doesn’t do to dwell. We are a hazy memory preserved in a rose tinted bubble, comforting and distant: a nebulous dream from the past, a hope for the future, but rarely his present.

Rob’s sentence plan also arrives this week, only a year late. Given the time it has taken to compile, we are expecting great things because at some point during the next eight years, someone will, God willing, see fit to release him back into the fray, so I’m hoping for society’s sake that in the interim they are also planning to address his deviance.

With anticipation he unfurls the paper:

“Carry on in full time work. Continue as an enhanced prisoner”.

That’s it. Oh dear! Truss has been telling porkies again: this is written evidence that there is in fact no plan to rehabilitate anyone, no second chance and no consideration for the fatherless children at home. Prison is just what it appears to be at face value – men in cages being fed drugs and biscuits until they are eventually tossed back into society, hard, homeless and certainly more desperate and dangerous than before.

At least the sun is out in jolly old Blighty though, and what better way to celebrate this anomaly than with a BBQ? Unfazed by the fact that this is a working day, Highpoint staff put the prison on a full 7 hour lock-down, considerately deliver packets of crisps to the men for lunch and take to the outdoors to bond over a burger and a bit of bronzing, all neatly captured on those pesky camera phones and leaked to The Sun, who to their credit, put in a word for the prisoners.

Tory MP Phillip Davies has no sympathy for the men however: “If you don’t like the time then don’t do the crime”. Congrats on the rhyme Phil, but this comment is asinine and frankly so dumb it hurts. We live in a world of soundbites. May is proving the sad truth that politicians just need to repeat target phrases X number of times per minute to ensure election. It therefore also stands to reason that when you label someone a criminal, talk down to them and remind them over and over with every turn of the key and every rebuttal that they are bad, the chances are they’ll hear the buzzwords, they’ll believe them and they’ll be what you tell them they are.

I’m on the screw’s side on the jolly though, and so are plenty of the men. Guards are saddled with appalling working conditions and pay, insultingly unflattering uniforms and are legally bound not to strike. Their recent foray into industrial action elicited an icy reaction from government, but it seems that no one actually gives a rats backside about lock-downs as long as their purpose is kept resolutely frivolous. The staff’s best hope of an improvement in working conditions then is to adopt an approach of as much dereliction of duty as possible until prisoners finally crack, organise mass riots and go Guy Fawkes on parliament.

The only real hope for anyone in prison, (and thus obvi for our society as a whole… join the dots Phil), is self education, ‘cos prison ain’t educating no-one. Unlike the majority of prisoners who lack basic literacy, Rob’s nose is rarely out of a book and so the good ladies who run the library offer him a job. Could it get any more Shawshank?

Predictably the note on his file about inappropriate touching threatens to derail the process, but for once he is dealing with people who treat him like a human being. They listen to his story, do their own “digging” and give him the first break he has had at Highpoint by calling his treatment what it is: bullying. To his great joy the appointment goes ahead. I never thought I’d be married to a librarian.

He is emotional on the phone that evening. Acts of kindness are so far and few between inside: belittling, derision and contempt are systemic and so being treated considerately is shocking and almost painful. I feel something vital wake up in him again. A man remembering who he used to be.

The prison governor has confirmed that Rob’s behaviour was (and I quote) “The innocent act of a father comforting his child” and yet the comments on Rob’s file have prevented family visits, almost sabotaged the library position and are being dropped into conversation by staff with other prisoners (which is frankly terrifying) and still the prison claim that they cannot remove the allegation from his record. Really? Can’t or won’t?.

Rob has unsuccessfully pursued every option available to him because if he can’t get justice on this issue who can? Orwell and Kafka eat your heart out. It might have taken us until 2017, but we are not just living your dream, we are basking in it, out in the midday sun.