Day two, Saturday 21st April.



Im getting a visit today. Its the first thought in my head and it stays with me until breakfast, 8.40am.



Breakfast? As much as I hate the cheeky c**kney tw*tter, prison needs Jamie Oliver. It was supposed to be sausage, a plum tomato and scrambled egg. I would have been better off having shat on my plate. And thats another thing, plates. You get one plastic plate, bowl, spoon, knife and fork. Theyre yours, for the duration of your visit. I head down from the 3rd floor of a large Victorian prison wing, to the ground floor, where meals are handed out. Then its back up to your cell, with your meal, where youre locked back in to eat. If you eat all of your food, its probably a miracle, or youre a sadist. Anything left on your plate (likely), you cant take it back or put it in the tiny bin in the cell. You cut it up into small pieces and flush it down the cell toilet. I bypass most of breakfast and put it straight down the toilet. A bit like being bulimic but without having to taste the food twice. How do you wash your now greasy plate and utensils? In the small cell sink, used also for washing yourself. No washing up liquid, just grease.



The ordeal of my first meal depresses me. Eating is one of my main pleasures, and the food Ive just tried is borderline inedible. Apparently we dont get breakfast on the weekdays, maybe thats a blessing?



Breakfast out of the way and its back to remembering I have a visit soon. Itll be very nearly 24 hours since I last saw Jilly, and in the circumstances, its been the hardest 24 hours of my life. 30 minutes feels like 30 hours, but eventually theres a knock from an officer on the cell door, Ive got a visit. A handful of us are led to the ground floor, where an officer walks us across the prison through numerous barred gates and locked doors, towards the visiting centre. It reminds me of sheep being moved through pens when theyre being dipped, but not enough that it allows me a smile about it. Its strange, Im about to see someone Ive never been nervous of seeing in my entire life, but I feel apprehensive. When I see her am I going to laugh or burst into tears? Either could happen.



Prisoners from different wings are brought together in a waiting room just by the visiting centre, were all wearing the same dark blue jeans and blue striped short sleeved shirts. Some of them obviously know each other and take the opportunity to catch up about their cases and appeals and so on. Listening to them reminds me of Shawshank- no ones guilty! After 30 minutes or so were led to a desk where we have to hand in anything in our pockets, where its noted in a book and signed for. Were pat-down searched and then into the visiting room itself and sent to a numbered table already designated to you. None of the visitors are in yet. I walk over to table 25. Its one of those tables on a metal frame, seats attached. 3 on one side, one on the other. Like a penal version of a Happy Eater kids table.



Last night I was given a small photocopied booklet by one of the officers, explaining the prison routine and how to organise visits. I brought it with me to the visit, hoping I could take it in to explain to Jilly how shes going to be able to visit me in future. I had to ask one of the officers if it was OK to take it in with me. Luckily, after it was thoroughly inspected, they brought it over to the table for me. So much has happened I dont think I could have remembered enough to have been clear, otherwise.



The room itself has about 40 low tables. At one end is our entrance/ exit, at the opposite end a high desk with a couple of officers behind it, viewing footage from the many CCTV cameras dotted throughout the room. Directly in front of me is a small tuck shop, manned by an old woman who looks like an escapee from lollipop lady school. More importantly right now, is the visitors entrance opposite me.



All the prisoners sat for about 10 minutes at their tables before the first visitors were allowed in. Each prisoners visitors come in one group at a time, report to a desk to confirm ID, then are allowed to go and sit with their loved one. Every time another group comes through the door I glance up in a kind of Im not looking way, waiting to see some faces I recognise.



As the room begins to fill, mainly with visitors who seem more than experienced with the routine, another idiosyncrasy of the prison system dawns on me. Half the tables and chairs in the room are moulded grey plastic, dour affairs and half are wooden and padded with nicely coloured cushioning. Then it dawns on me, the nice chairs and tables are being used by the remand prisoners, unconvicted, whereas the convicted ones are provided with the harsh ones. Having listened to some of them talking before the visit, I suspect quite a few of the inmates enjoying padded bottoms will soon enough get to sample the plastic seats.



The rooms almost full now, cons and remanders chatting away to their two or three guests like theyve never been away. There seems to be a worrying amount of bottle blond perma-tanners in here. Like a lot of the prisoners theyre visiting, they also look like they should be locked up for robbing a branch of JJB Sports.



At last I see Jilly, Mum and Dad walk in. While they present their paperwork at the desk and look around I try not to make immediate eye contact. I still dont know how Ill react. They look just like I feel, nervous yet relieved to see each other at the same time. It might have only been 24 hours, but months of emotion have flown through us all, its written on our faces. We all get chance to briefly hug, then its me on one side of the table looking across at three shocked people. For the first time we all get to talk about the past 24 hours. I was well supported with friends and family at the sentencing, but despite constantly telling them I was going to go to prison, they were knocked for 6 when it was confirmed by Judge Batty. It really wells up inside as Jilly tells me how she was looked after by all our friends, and how many people have offered their help. Apparently the landlady at the local pub had got the champagne on ice, only for the potential party to turn into a wake. Well, Im not dead yet. In the finest tradition everyone had got absolutely slaughtered, if only I could have joined them. Plenty of time for that in a few months, I suppose.



I do my best to explain the processes Ive been through and still to go through, but until my induction begins proper on Monday, Ive got more of my own questions than answers, theres not a lot I can tell them about whats going to happen in the next few weeks. How long will I spend in Durham? When will I find out my release date? Will I qualify for early release? I just dont know. As we talk the feeling of stress lessens and lifts from our shoulders, but theres something about being emotionally exposed that makes me feel uncomfortable. I cant pretend all is well, on the other hand I cant show them how upset I am, either. If I did wed all end up in a teary mess.



Apparently before they were allowed into the visiting centre, they had to show ID, then they are walked to another room, where they can put their belongings into a locker. Before being allowed into the actual room, they had to stand on a line along the floor and be checked by a sniffer dog for drugs. Only then were they allowed to come into the room. Security is tight, and so it should be.



Dad manages about 4 minutes in the visit room before a b*llocking from one of the roaming officers. All drinks are served in lidded paper cups, with a straw sized opening on the top to drink through, to prevent visitors from passing drugs to inmates via their drinks. Dad removes his and within 30 seconds hes reminded to put it back on or he can leave!



Jilly and I get a few minutes alone before the end of the visit. She is, of course, still very upset. I think the friends around us, being so good, have cushioned her heavy landing the day before. Like me, she likes to show a brave face, but I doubt either of us can or need to today. In what seems like an instant, the visiting time is over. In a reverse of the process this morning, were searched, led back to our wings and back to a day in the cell.



Uneventful describes the rest of the day. Two meals came and went, luckily they werent as bad as breakfast. Maybe I wont starve to death. I would only have slight reservations about feeding someone elses dog my lunch and dinner. When I went to collect dinner, a white board listed tomorrows meals with a number beside each. We have to choose tomorrows food the day before. Seems bizarre.



Thank the lord for snooker, the championship at the crucible has begun. Like watching Golf, snooker can remove vast chunks of time without you realising it, like a kind of baize time machine. With no books and only my writing pad for company, the TV is essential. Ironically, this evening Porridge was on. Now I understand the meaning of black humour. It actually seems quite accurate, too.



Ah, while I remember, Saturdays you also get a tea pack. This is a bundle of tea bags, coffee and sugar sachets to last you until the next Saturday. I wont be using mine, Mark [my padmate] can have it. He reminds me that anything in short supply has a currency value, so if its available for nowt, get it, and sell it!



My final moments of today are whiled away watching match of the day. Usually Id catch matches live on the telly, well thats how it happens in freedomland, but today I have to make do with watching Man Utd draw with Borough. Bugger. Lets hope Chelsea c**k up against Newcastle tomorrow. Being in Geordieland, Im probably not alone.