High life
Day after day
Taki
Throughout the past three months I have kept a diary, which in view of the time I had on my hands, makes Proust a remembrances postively laconic. This was the first time that I had kept a journal. , figuring that recording my life while tll prison would not be regarded by my Pe_er5 .. as an act of great egotism and conceit. Nu' could I be accused of self-indulgence bY„ those who think that hanging aroru Annabel's every night is a waste of time and money. After all, I was the only prisoner who worked seven days a week' while 1,200 other layabouts indulged in the work ethic only on five days. Given the fact that the daily life of a prisoner is not exactly a bravura perforrn- ance, half of my diary is action, the other half reflection. But before any of you stud reaching for your pens in order to write and protest to the sainted one, let me assure you that Spectator readers will be Spared the Taki journals. The reasons are obvious. My Proustian tale of incarcera- tion, and my reflections on the human condition while wearing striped pyjamas have no place under a 'High life' heading, and no space either. What I have done is to negotiate the sale of my tale with a quality Sunday newspaper of the communist per- suasion. Needless to say, we are still negotiating about money. The quality one insists on paying in roubles, I want dollars. Fortunately, neither the quality one nor I have mentioned pounds. This, then, will be the first and probably the last time I shall write about my life in the nick on these hallowed pages, and I will do it by the time-honoured method of 'a day in the life' of Taki in Pentonville. It is Probably the best way of telling any young readers that although prison is less boring than; say, hanging around the Coach and Horses with small-time criminals all day, it is not remotely as much fun as being the guest of the Beauforts at Badminton or the Agnellis at Vilar Perosa. Or even the Chancellors in Tuscany. 6.45 a.rn. The officer (if you're an Eton man like myself) or the screw (if one is a borstal alumnus) flicks on the light from the outside of the cell and another day begins. By 7.30 I have made my bed, have Shaved in the plastic bowl that I filled with water the night before, and am anxiously listening for the jingling of keys so I will be ready for slop-out. This process is exactly What it says. The trick is to hold one's breath, tip the potty, wash it, and run from the recess area with still enough oxygen in one'S lungs to make it out of there. Most Prisoners, however, do not bother with lung exercises. Some of them even use the lavatory area as a meeting place, chatting and laughing like tourists in the Piazza San Marco during carnival time. By eight o'clock the various landings are Deing called down for breakfast. I take my Plastic cup, plate and bowl and walk down tO D-2 where there is porridge, tea and beans. Then it's back inside my cell, the door is slammed shut and I have the first of the three solitary meals of the clay. And the first cigarette of the day. Prisoners roll their own, but I invested my weekly salary in buying them ready made as I found the rolling process as tedious as prison itself. Pretty soon the anxious waiting for the Jingling of the keys starts all over again. It's sl°P-out time once more, and this time one needs two trips to the nick's favourite meeting place. One to wash out the cup and bowl, the other for the potty. By nine (2:clock I feel as if I can swim the English Lhannel underwater, such is my lung capacity. At 9 a.m. precisely all doors are unlock- ed and we head for the various workshops. Some go to number one shop, where they SW laundry bags, some to number two or three shop where they make army jackets, Prison clothes and various other items needed for the sartorial splendour of the Inmates. I head for the gym. Once there I give out plimsolls, vests and short's to those who have chosen the healthy life, and sweep the showers and put away what I've given out as soon as the hour is up. I also take part in the basketball games, weight- lifting and boxing that are part of the day's activities.
By 11.30 everyone is back in their cells and dinner is served. There is mashed potatoes, cabbage, meat, tea and a sweet. It is not the Ritz, nor is it the Gulag. People like Charles Benson wouldn't touch it, but most prisoners aren't as spoilt as he is and certainly not as greedy. By 1.30 p.m. we have slopped out once again, and I am back in the gym, this time until 4.30. Just before that, I have taken my daily shower — the only one in the whole nick who has that privilege, others bathe once a week. Then I go down for 'tea'. Tea means pota- toes, cabbage, some meat, tea and a sweet. Then we are banged up once again, until the final exercise of holding one's breath around six in the evening. It is now lock-up time until the next morning. I read my newspapers, write my diary, and study the things I should have learned in school 30 years ago. At around midnight I manage to fall asleep. My lights have been left on for as long as I want. It is Pentonville's greatest advantage. I dream of the high life, the one I will be reporting on to you from Gstaad next week.
Previous page
