My world is collapsing. Literally. I return from a sunny amble with the dog to find that roughly a third of my bedroom ceiling has fallen in, covering my entire dress arsenal (a collection which has been compiled over many years, with much angst and the appropriation of enough dough to buy back the house) with builders rubble, plasterboard and hunks of blackened water-sodden loft insulation. Damn that Saniflow! Putting a blender in a loo is not only a vile concept, it also doesn’t work. It is an abomination on every level from conception through to execution and is responsible for the fact that my erstwhile sanctuary now looks like Kabul on a rough day.

Nothing stirs in my chest as I survey the carnage. Zero. Zilch. It just makes me feel tired. I stare at the devastation for a while, briefly consider dislodging the rest of it with a broom handle and creating my own tomb, and then go and water the geraniums.

I’m not sure what to do, so I adopt my default response and go next door. My neighbour, high on sleep deprivation, slaps her newborn in a papoose and comes round to inspect the damage. She takes one look and tells me to dial it in. We need immediate professional help.

This is my second insurance claim this year. I feel rather sorry for the company. They obtained me as a client only last summer after an awkward call from their predecessors who had discovered our blacklisted names on some kind of database of shame, and (16 claim free years notwithstanding) ditched us overnight. At the time I felt rather aggrieved. Now I realise they were on to something.

I am not a good bet. I am a wounded animal and the odds on my survival are poor. Prison leaks steadily into everything you try to do to stay above water at home and pulls you under. This week we have been late to school every day. Forget homework or nutritionally balanced suppers. I’m happy just to get to the other side of bedtime without screaming. De-escalating family tensions is particularly important in summer due to OWS (Open Window Syndrome): no-one needs the happy sizzle of their barbecue overlaid by the ominous and unmistakable sound of a mother on the turn.

I am an accident waiting to happen. My other neighbour preempts disaster by volunteering to lop my olive tree which has gone feral over the course of this untended year. I am already a shouty, occasionally tearful, harassed person and the loss of digits is unlikely to improve my disposition or the tranquility of his summer evenings, plus, he is just kind. I am lucky. I am sandwiched by love and care. I look as though I am standing up, but really I’m just leaning on everyone around me.

I pick up a fellow prison wife en route to Highpoint. Rob has volunteered my services to a friend whose Mrs has hitherto been spending her Sundays battling with the grueling 12 hour journey by public transport. I tentatively ask what the guy is in for. Rob hasn’t got a clue.

Neither of us knows what to expect when I pull up outside J’s flat, but we hit it off immediately. She is smart, interesting and passionate about her neighbourhood where she is setting up local community awards in her “spare” time alongside her full time job. Not bad for a prison wife.

My old friends are awesome: without them I would have cracked months ago, but not one of them can tell me how it was for them when their husband went inside. None of them knows how the first year feels compared to the second, or that summers are quick and winters slow. They don’t know how to put a part of themselves to sleep to survive the separation, or how to dream into a future so far away.

It also transpires that J has a remarkable knowledge about the “Fresh Prince of Bel-Air”, both on and off the set. Impressed, Tala relegates herself selflessly to the back seat and we all chat the journey away rendering the weekly pilgrimage educational for Tala, anti-soporific for me and thus less potentially lethal for us all.

J’s partner’s story is another shocker. With pitifully diminished access to legal aid and a backlogged appeal process our courts are becoming a farce and like most farces (not my favourite genre), it’s not all that funny, particularly when it’s happening to you.

The wife of one of Rob’s literacy students has had their children taken away from her. After her husband went to prison she couldn’t cope, so now the kids are in care. Prison is a truly terrible thing to do to a family. The dad is devastated. On top of it all the children are not receiving his letters. He is an enhanced prisoner with a flawless record who has relentlessly taught himself to read with the help of other inmates. He is doing everything right, but how much can he take? He carries on writing to the children and keeps the letters in his cell. One day, when he gets out, he will give them a great big stack of envelopes tied up like a present. He’ll try to show them that he never stopped thinking about them.

As we pass through visitor security I see a newspaper cutting proudly displayed on the side of the scanner. “Mother of four jailed for six months for passing a £5 wrap of cannabis to partner at HMP Highpoint”. It makes you proud to be British doesn’t it? We are so marvelously tough on crime…. and children.

Prison is like a wrecking ball to a family and Paul Dacre is twerking shamelessly on its chain yelling “lock ‘em up and throw away the key”. Households crumble. Children get taken away and become prison fodder in their turn: 50% of under 25’s in British jails come from “care”. No one wins.