I'm hungry

Two days later, the transfer to Frescoed not having materialised and being sick of being left without any information or explanation of what was happening, and incredibly worried about the future of my studies without access to my materials, I told wing staff that I was on hunger strike.

Why a hunger strike? Why not some other, more expressive or assertive course of action? Because, in different times, I would have promptly held up a metaphorical finger to the prison and parked myself in the Block.

I chose a hunger strike for two reasons. Firstly, because I suspected (as I write, I know now) that there was a hope amongst some of my keepers that I would react badly to the situation they had created, and given them an excuse to seriously delay or even remove my Category D status. And I wasn't going to bite.

But a solitary hunger strike is an incredibly risky move in prison. Hunger striking is a moral appeal to one's keepers, and regular readers will have long grasped that I judge the moral development of my keepers to be somewhat stunted.

The key would be my second reason - your support and the noise you could create on my behalf. I was wholly reliant upon management feeling the heat not from me, but from "outside" - and they hate it.

As is the general policy, my declaration of starvation fell into a Void. If managers jumped at every con who went on hunger strike, then we would all be doing it! So they ignore it, at least for the first few weeks. Even then, they don't come rushing.

Seven days later, and I'm back in Shepton writing this, stuffing my face on chocolate and crisps. I also discovered that Cardiff was telling everyone who phoned that I was being looked after, not on hunger strike, and ensconced in a nice single cell. God forbid I suggest Governors lie! But Cardiff Governors were lying like professionals. They lie first, to escape a problem, and worry about the consequences later. Rather like three year old children.

But I did not fall into the trap, I didn't bite, I didn't get nicked. Thanks to all of you and the efforts of the Editor, together we explored and developed the possibilities of the New Media to pressure the management successfully. Without you, I'd be getting a bit peckish by now...

Stranded

Cardiff Cat-B local prison. Oh, joy. Shuffling between waiting rooms as we were booked-in, searched, logged, examined. Bumping into prisoners who weren't even born when I began my sentence. I had to sit on the BOSS chair, a metal detector meant to uncover phones hidden in, ahem, "body orifices". Quite who tries to smuggle a mobile phone to Open prison was a question met with shrugs.

As always, from harsh experience, I had packed an emergency bag for such temporary detours, and I grabbed it. We were not allowed access to the rest of our property. As this included my research materials, my anxiety began to rise.

We were assured that we would be "off to Frescoed on Friday", in two days time and meanwhile be located in single cells on the Lifer wing. That was the first lie. That we were moving on Friday the second. Not a good score; we'd hardly got off the wagon and been lied to twice.

To the wing, a masterpiece of what I call "security-brutalist" architectural style. All very nice and clean but far removed from the functional elegance of Victorian wings. This was thick concrete and heavy metalwork, a reaction to the riots of 1990.

The wing office and a screw that I knew from Shepton. He was as baffled as we were, made inquiries, and repeated what we'd been told in Reception - "off on Friday". I blagged some A4 paper and we were allocated beds.

Our cell was extremely shabby, damaged furniture and threadbare mattresses. Standard local prison conditions. The TV didn't work. Bunk beds, the top one being higher than any either of us had previously seen. I took the top, just to help create a fragile illusion of some privacy.

Little did I know, the Editor had already tracked me down to Cardiff and was attempting to book a visit. This failed as, not being Cardiff's prisoners (orphans), I "hadn't been put on the system”.

As we went to sleep that night, we were no wiser. Were we still on our way to Frescoed? Were we still on our way to any Open prison? When would we get access to our property? When would we be told what was happening, and by whom?

With no access to the payphone - "not on the system", remember? -I felt incredibly isolated. Did anyone know where I was? Being adrift in the prison system is a situation fraught with potential for difficulties, even danger. My only protection against Authority was the inherent decency of those in charge - a variable property, at best - and the comfort that people outside of the walls are aware of my location and situation. At that moment, I had the solace of neither.

Update

Ben just called from HMP Cardiff.  Nothing has changed and he is still on hunger strike.

His solicitor rang me earlier and told me that they are going to move him tomorrow to another Cat C.  However, Ben has not yet been informed of this move. He assured me that if he is told of a possible impending transfer he will start eating again - even it it means "eating a biscuit in reception."

Thank you for all your support.  Please keep it up and hopefully we will have some good news in the morning.