Hell’s teeth there’s a man on the roof at Highpoint North! It happens now and again. Unfortunately this one has gone up without sunscreen and it’s a scorcher so no-one gives him long before he jumps or retreats.

Most prisoners suck up the injustices of the system and just do their time, but this guy has cracked. Rumour has it that his requests for a transfer have been ignored and a rooftop protest suddenly seems like his only hope. Perhaps he wants to be nearer his family, or somewhere that nominally offers a course he needs for release? Perhaps he just hates it here? No-one knows. What is known is that nothing good will happen now. This is kamikaze.

It takes until nightfall for reality to bite the lone demonstrator, ensuring that none of the other men get let out for exercise that sunny day and achieving a great deal less than nothing for all involved, unless third degree sunburn and a cameo in this blog count for anything.

It is true that the man will now be moved… to the British equivalent of Siberia: as far away as possible from where he wants to be. He’ll also do an extra two to four years over his sentence for his troubles. No-one gives a rat’s arse about what you want in prison. You are on your own. Put up, shut up, and “just say yeah” or it will be the worse for you. It’s hard though.

Having missed the morning off work for a council meeting with the governor, Rob makes the fatal mistake of clocking in at his job in the library instead of attending his voluntary computer course. Now he is in trouble. Part of him (the part that is still labouring under the misconception that initiative is an attribute), wants to lose it, but thankfully the majority of him remembers that he wants to come back out to us someday. This is the mother of all institutions: be nothing and no-one, or else…

The problem with prison is that the whole place is teeming with characters: entrepreneurialism and spirit appear to abound amongst the incarcerated so the only way the sparky and bright survive is by performing a kind of schizophrenic character splice with everyone “from the out”. You “yes sir, no miss” to anyone who walks into that building by choice. It’s them and us. After a while resisting the machine becomes exhausting though and most men on long sentences submit to institutionalisation rendering themselves all but useless to the outside world and confirming the general assertion that they were no-hopers from the start. No one sees their potential.

I stick my head round Okha’s bedroom door to see if she is coming to visiting. She turns over and smiles hazily at me through the fugg of ethanol between us. I scream. She has had some kind of late night break-failure mediated contretemps with a pot hole on her bike, landed on her mouth, (now cut and swollen) and knocked half a tooth out.

I ring my next door neighbour: she is the font of all useful knowledge. She also has a newborn and is therefore always awake. (FYI 111 is the number to ring when you discover a toothless child on a Sunday morning, people). By the end of the afternoon a temporary cap has been fitted on the shattered tooth. It looks a little Ken Dodd, which is upsetting for her now that both local and alcoholic anaesthetics are wearing off, but it’ll do ’til Monday.

In jail everyone’s biggest fear is illness and particularly toothache. Chris Grayling eat your heart out: you may be the devil’s own emissary with the blood of literally hundreds of prisoners on your hands, but your ability to instil fear into the incarcerated community has nothing on prison dentistry, or rather the lack thereof.

A mate of Rob’s has bitten down inadvertently on something hard and lost half a molar. He is in absolute agony and will remain so, having been given an “emergency” appointment 6 weeks away. He can’t work or study the pain is so intense. It is frightening and pitiful to see.

Another guy has historic and well documented back pain which he has managed throughout his life with copious pain relief. The prison doctor decides the medication can be cut leaving the guy in perpetual chronic pain. Nothing he says gets him a new appointment or a reversion to the original prescription. Luckily for the prison his back is probably too gippy for him to make it up to the roof, so there is little risk anyone will find out that this kind of passive brutality is routine in British jails. No-one will ever ever know.

At visiting we sit next to a small quiet family. The two young daughters draw feverishly for their father. I wonder what on earth their Dad is in for. It transpires that he is a doctor who had a disagreement with HMRC over VAT receipts. When I ask if this man is permitted to treat the inmates Rob snorts loudly and derisively into his jasmine tea. Fat chance!  Ok… so you might not put him in sole charge of medical finances but the guy isn’t in here for being a bad doctor. Men are writhing in agony in unattended, unstaffed cells with qualified doctors locked up helplessly next door to them.

There are all sorts of people in prison with all manner of talents. The first question asked of a new arrival should be “What can you offer?” and the second “What would you like to receive?”. But then that would involve seeing prisoners as people, giving them purpose and improving outcomes for society at large…

On the long drive home through Sunday evening traffic I wonder briefly if there is some kind of hex on our house: even our lodger has broken her ankle on the first day of her holiday poor thing… but then I don’t feel cursed. I actually feel very very lucky.

I have had so much good fortune in my life: loving parents, an education, loyal friends and a family of my own. I have had every advantage and yet I have made so many mistakes. Without the head start I had, I wouldn’t have stood a chance. I am humbled every day by the stories Rob tells me from the prison library: men trying to educate themselves and make something from the nothing (or worse) they get inside. The nothing they have always had. When I weigh up the continuum of my life we are really not talking curses.