Written on: Monday 16th February 2009

Monday morning, 9:00am. Rush hour. Cars snake slowly along Wellington Road, their drivers tooting and cursing at each other. Valentine’s Day has been and gone and any love engendered by it has swiftly melted with the snow. Rain falls horizontally, mixing with the slush and salt to form a dirty brown paste that clings to everything it touches, tarnishing alloys and destroying loafers. It is the most depressing day of the week in the greyest, dreichest city in Scotland in the most violent, murderous country in Western Europe. At this exact moment in time, no one wishes they were here, but they are, so collectively they grit their teeth and get on with it; the school run, the morning commute to work, the consignment of fish bound for the A90 and beyond.
I see none of this – the commuters, the slush, the rain and the traffic – but I know it’s all there, just on the other side of the perimeter wall. 30 feet the wrong side of it, in HMP Craiginches, there is no work to go to, no kids to drop off at school and no appointments to be late for. There is no reason for this day to be any more depressing than the 100 that preceded it. Each one is, after all, identical in every way. Yet even in here it is impossible to shake off that Monday morning feeling. Within seconds of being unlocked, 45 minutes earlier, one of the cons on the second flat [landing] dragged a Scouser into the shower area and laid into him. Perhaps their dispute was over drugs. Or perhaps he was just pissed off because it was Monday.
Inside cell 1-11 on the bottom flat, my pad-mate and I are oblivious to the stresses and strains of the outside world. Ours is a scene of domestic bliss. While Huxley boils the kettle, I am busy scrubbing my underwear in the sink, having left it to marinate for a while in Lynx shower gel. The kettle hisses and we prepare to make our respective breakfasts. For my co-pilot, this consists of cornflakes with sugar, milk and a drop of hot water. For me, Frosties, milk and sliced banana. From the stereo in the corner of the cell, generic ned beats pump out. It is the only CD we have and it has been played 100 times over; ‘Watching the sunshine, show me the sunshine, come on give me the sunshine.’ The chance would be a fine thing. Here, on the bottom flat, no sunlight ever pervades these walls to lighten up our day. All we can see – should we care to look – is razor wire, concrete and the occasional low-flying seagull. There is a click and our door unlocks. ‘Kit change’ shouts the screw. I gather up my dirty laundry – an Aberdeen Prison-stamped towel, a pair of Aberdeen Prison-stamped tracksuit bottoms, an Aberdeen Prison-stamped jumper and, yep, an Aberdeen Prison-stamped t-shirt. The items are deposited in a wheelie bin and I am issued with clean ones, like for like. We return to our cell and are promptly locked up again. I wring the water out of my Calvin Klein boxer shorts and hang them on the pipes to dry. Huxley sparks a rollie. Shortly, the door will unlock once again and I will be escorted to the education department. There, I will assemble the jail magazine for the reading pleasure of its illiterate population. After that, the rest of my day will be taken up with lunch, sleep, gym, dinner, sleep, visit, letter-writing, TV and yet more sleep in that order. It is not the most enthralling way to eke out one’s days, but at least mine’s is an existence free of stress and responsibility. No deadlines, nowhere to be, no obligation to get out of bed. If you want to escape from the pressures of everyday life, don’t book into an expensive spa – just go to jail.
On the other side of the wall, the morning rush hour is still in progress as the good people of the world crawl agonisingly closer to wherever it is they are going. As they inch their way slowly through Torry, they barely glance up at the imposing granite wall that shadows the road, or the CCTV cameras that monitor their steady progress. They are not to know that just a stone’s throw away lies Aberdeen’s best-kept secret; an exclusive gated community where living is free and responsibilities are left at the door. As the crow flies, my world is not a million miles away from theirs. In reality however, we are a million miles apart.