While I make her a coffee, Simon tells me he's moving room today. His room-mate, a married man with two children, asked him last night if he'd ever considered being bis.e.xual. Simon tells me that he jumped out of bed, got dressed, left the room and demanded to be moved, as he didn't want to be locked up with, in his words, 'a raving f.a.ggot'.

8.00 pm I watch Great Artists on BBC 2. The subject is Breughel, and all the little Breughels.

10.00 pm Fall asleep in my chair, exhausted. It must be the combination of writing and hospital duties. Can't complain though, as the days are pa.s.sing far more quickly.

DAY 157 - SAt.u.r.dAY 22 DECEMBER 2001.

9.00 am Prison life is like a game of cricket; every day you discover a new way of getting out.

The doctor has to pa.s.s as fit this morning an inmate by the name of Hal (cat burglar, six months) before he goes up in front of the governor. Last night Hal left the prison and walked into Boston. He dropped into one of the local pubs, had a pint and then purchased a bottle of vodka, a bottle of rum and a six-pack of Fosters. Hal didn't feel like walking the six miles back, so he decided to thumb a lift to the prison. Mr Blackman, one of our younger officers, obliged and happily escorted Hal back, confiscated the contraband and booked him into the segregation block. Hal was due to be released in January, but I fear it's now looking more like February. It turns out that he also suggested to Mr Blackman that if he dropped him off half a mile from the prison, he could keep the bounty. Nice try, Hal.

Among the other inmates who will appear in front of the governor this morning is Simon (abducting his son), but only for a warning. It appears he's been telling anyone who will listen that his cell-mate is 'a raving f.a.ggot'. The governor will order him to stop using such inflammatory language otherwise he will lose his job as mess orderly.

I chat to the cat burglar as he waits to see the doctor. Hal says he doesn't care that much what the governor decides. His partner has left him, his mother won't speak to him and he hasn't seen his father in years. When he gets out, he doesn't have anywhere to stay overnight, and only has 37 to his name. He says he needs a job that will earn him enough money to ensure that he doesn't have to revert to stealing again.

I ask him, 'How much is enough?'

'Two hundred quid,' he replies. 'Then I'd have a chance of finding some digs and getting a job.'

11.00 am Mr Lewis drops into the hospital to wish Linda a happy Christmas. While I'm making him a coffee, he complains that I've thrown away the hospital ashtray, so he can't enjoy a cigar. I reluctantly supply an old saucer. He tells me that he was surprised by the Spring Hill decision and, looking round the hospital, says pointedly, 'If they suggest Hollesley Bay, don't even consider it.'

2.50 pm Mary and William turn up almost an hour late for their visit because of the snow and ice that caused long hold-ups on the A1. My time with them is cut down to forty minutes.

It's Mary's birthday, and she's wearing the emerald that Sergio purchased for me from the Green Mountains after he returned to Columbia. 14 I wanted to also give her the pot I made at Wayland, but they told me it shattered in the kiln.

We chat about her forthcoming trip to Kenya for her nephew's wedding. She'll be away for the first ten days of January, but as my appeal won't be heard until mid-February, this isn't a problem. She hopes to see Sir Sidney Kentridge and G.o.dfrey Barker before she leaves. If G.o.dfrey signs an affidavit confirming that Mr Justice Potts discussed me adversely at a dinner party they both attended a year before my arrest, I could be out of here in a few weeks' time. Will isn't optimistic. He feels G.o.dfrey will feel compromised because his wife works for the parole board.

As G.o.dfrey has sent me a Christmas card, I can only hope Will's wrong.

Surely justice and truth matter to such a man. We shall soon find out.

DAY 158 - SUNDAY 23 DECEMBER 2001.

8.35 am The Sunday Telegraph reports that I've written a 300,000-word novel ent.i.tled Sons of Fortune during the short time I've been in prison. It might seem short to them, but it's been 158 days for me.

I actually wrote the first three drafts of the novel before my conviction. I had planned to drive from Boston (Connecticut) to Newhaven via Hartford, where the book is set, and research the final points before Mr Justice Potts intervened. I ended up spending the month of August not in the US, but in Belmarsh writing the first diary.

9.00 am Five inmates' names are called over the tannoy. They are told to report to the doctor, which means they've been charged and will later be up in front of the governor for adjudication: two for smoking cannabis, one for being drunk, one for secreting 25 in a cigarette tin, and finally Hal, who you will recall thumbed a lift back from Boston, while in possession of a bottle of vodka, a bottle of rum and a six-pack of Fosters. Hal did point out to me that it's a twelve-mile round trip to Boston and back to NSC, and it was 2 degrees below zero. I don't think the governor will consider these to be mitigating circ.u.mstances!

Hal loses all privileges, and has twentyone days added to his sentence.

11.00 am The governor, Mr Lewis, who has only a few days to go before retirement, pops into the hospital to check on the end of year audit, or was it just to enjoy a cup of coffee with Linda and a cigar during his morning break? As he's leaving, I ask him to tell me a story.

'What about my memoirs?' he protests, but then recounts an anecdote from his time as governor of Oxford Prison: two brothers were charged with a burglary, but the elder did not feel his younger brother would be able to cope with a spell in jail, so he took the rap and was sentenced to six months. As it turned out, the younger brother couldn't cope with being 'on the out' without his elder brother, so he stole a ladder, climbed over the prison wall and broke into jail. No one was any the wiser until roll-call that night, when the duty officer reported that they had one more prisoner than was on the manifest.

The younger brother was arrested and charged with breaking into a prison. He got three months, and ended up sharing a cell with his brother.

Mr Lewis went on to tell me about two prisoners who escaped from Oxford Crown Court while handcuffed to each other. They ran down the street pursued by the police, but when they came to a zebra crossing, one decided to cross the road while the other kept on going. The handcuffs that bound them together collided with the Belisha beacon at full speed, and they swung round and knocked each other out.

DAY 159 - CHRISTMAS EVE.

Today is a nightmare for security. First there are the truly stupid inmates who abscond sometime during the morning and then return to the prison on Boxing Day evening. If they are also drunk, they are allowed to sleep it off, with twenty-eight days added to their sentence. Second are the group who slip out to Boston and arrive back with provisions and food. As long as they remain in their rooms and cause no trouble, the officers turn a blind eye. Should they cause any trouble, they also get twenty-eight days. This is known as 'Nelson time', and occurs only at Christmas.

It must seem madness to you, but when you have 211 inmates and only 5 officers on duty, it's no more than common sense. Why aren't there more officers on duty? Because the service is understaffed and underpaid.

The average prison officer is paid 17,000 a year, and this year's pay rise was 1.8 per cent. Why not send the offenders back to a closed prison? Because they are all already overcrowded (67,500 in Britain) and if you did, the D-cats would be empty. Then cut down on D-cats? If you did that, you would never rehabilitate anyone. Prisoners in a D... cat used to be released at 8 am (with the exception of lifers) on Christmas Eve and had to return to prison before 8 pm on Boxing Day. But Michael Howard put a stop to that when he became Home Secretary. This little break was more for the staff than the prisoners.

7.30 am Dave (murder) is among the walking wounded, and comes to surgery doubled up with stomach cramps. Sister gives him painkillers that contain certain opiates. She then has to make out a separate form, which I take across to security because if Dave were to have an MDT he would show up positive.

Sister is especially vigilant in these cases, looking out for those prisoners who fake the pain in order to get the drugs, especially when they know they're about to be tested for heroin. In Dave's case, there is no doubt that he's in real pain, and any case, he's been a model prisoner since the day he arrived at NSC. He's desperate to impress the parole board and be released as soon as possible.

He's already served twenty-one years, and his wife says she can't wait much longer.

9.00 am Despite its being Christmas Eve, one inmate will not be able to avoid a nicking because he has pushed his luck a little too far. During an MDT, he attempted to exchange a tube of someone else's urine for his while he was in the loo. It turns out that he got this drug-free sample from another prisoner in exchange for a Mars Bar.

11.00 am Sue from accounts drops into the hospital to tell me that my private money has run out, and that's why my canteen account only showed 1.20 in credit. Had she let me know a week ago, I could have asked Mary to top it up. However, Sue explains that she is not allowed to let a prisoner know that his money is running low, and can only inform him if he asks directly for his account balance. The reason is that most inmates are penniless, and don't need to be continually reminded of that fact. Fair enough.

8.00 pm Doug returns from the canteen laden with goodies, and tells me that an inmate has just been nicked for ordering a taxi to take him on a round trip to Boston. The cab company phoned the prison, so two officers were waiting when the inmate returned. He was caught in possession of forty-eight cans of lager and one bottle each of whisky, vodka and brandy. He also had six packets of fish and chips, a melon, a carton of strawberries, a pot of cream and a box of jellied eels.

The prisoner begged to be placed in the segregation cell overnight in case the inmates who had lost their 'Christmas cheer' thought he'd sold the goodies to someone else. The duty officer duly obliged, but he'll still be up in front of the governor on Boxing Day.

DAY 160 - CHRISTMAS DAY.

Christmas Day for those who are incarcerated can be summed up in one word: dreadful. I have learned during the last 159 days as a prisoner how perverse reality is.

I go to work today, as every other day, and am grateful for something to do. At the seven-thirty surgery, only six prisoners report for sick parade; you have to be really ill to get up at 7.30 am on Christmas morning and troop across to the hospital when the temperature on the east coast is minus two degrees.

At eight-fifteen I go to breakfast, and even though it's eggs, bacon and sausage served by the officers (Mr Hocking, Mr Camplin, Mr Baker and Mr Gough), only around forty of the two hundred inmates bother to turn up.

On returning to the hospital, Linda and I unload bags of food from her car so I can hold a tea party for my friends this afternoon. She also gives me a present, which is wrapped in Christmas paper. I open it very slowly, trying to antic.i.p.ate what it might be.

Inside a neat little box is a china mug, with a black cat grinning at me. Now I have my own mug, and will no longer have to decide between a Campbell's Soup giveaway and a plain white object with a chip when I have my morning Bovril.

10.00 am Linda leaves me in charge of the hospital while she attends the governor's Christmas party. Frankly, if over half the prisoners weren't still in bed asleep, I could arrange for them all to abscond. When the tabloids claim I have privileges that the other prisoners do not have, in one respect they are right; I am lucky to be able to carry on with the job I do on the outside. While everyone else tries to kill time, I settle down to write for a couple of hours.

12 noon Lunch is excellent, and once again served by the officers, and shared with a half dozen old-age pensioners from the local village; tomato soup, followed by turkey, chipolatas, roast potatoes and stuffing, with as much gravy as will go on the plate. I don't allow myself the Christmas pudding several officers have kindly commented on the fact that I'm putting on weight (nine pounds in nine weeks).

After lunch I walk over to the south block and phone Mary and the boys. All things considered they sound pretty cheerful, but I can't hide the fact that I miss them. My wife is fifty-seven, my boys twenty-nine and twenty-seven, and today I'm surrounded by men sitting in their rooms staring at photographs of young children anywhere from six months to fifteen years old. Yes, they deserve to be incarcerated if they committed a crime, but we should remember it is Christmas Day, and it's not their families who are guilty.

As I walk back through the block, I notice that those not in the TV room or on the phone are just lying on their beds willing the day to pa.s.s. I have so much food in my fridge that I invite a dozen inmates over to join me in the hospital.

They all turn up, without exception. We watch The Great Escape (somewhat ironic) and enjoy Linda's feast pork pies, crisps, sausage rolls, shortbread biscuits, KitKats and, most popular of all with my fellow inmates, a chunk of my Cheddar cheese. This is accompanied not by Krug, but a choice of lemonade, Evian water, tea, coffee or Ribena.

They laugh, they chat, they watch the film, and when they leave, David (fraud, schoolmaster) pays me a compliment I have never received at any of my champagne and shepherd's pie parties. 'Thank you for getting rid of the afternoon so pleasantly.'

DAY 161 - BOXING DAY.

7.30 am For those prisoners who do not return to work, Boxing Day is almost worse than Christmas Day. Very few inmates attend surgery this morning, and certainly none of them have any illness worth reporting.

8.13 am Over breakfast, I learn another terrible consequence of the drug culture in prisons. Jim (antiques only), the gym orderly, tells me that some inmates who are addicted to heroin often die within a few months of leaving prison. The reason? The heroin they take in jail is always weaker because the dealers add other substances such as caster sugar, talc or flour. So when they are released, they are immediately exposed to a purer substance, which the body can no longer tolerate. Result? They end up dying of an overdose.

11.00 am The governor drops in to see Linda, and gives me a Christmas present and a birthday present for Mary, neither of which he's allowed to do, as it could compromise him should I ever come up in front of him on report. However, as it's only a few days before he retires, I suppose he feels this is unlikely.

It turns out that the governor is a collector of farthings, and he gives Mary a farthing dated 1944 and I receive one dated 1940 our respective years of birth. I am touched.

He also brings in three volumes of The World's Greatest Paintings: Selected Masterpieces, published in 1934 and edited by T. Leman Hare, for me to read over Christmas. He understands what turns me on.

The three volumes are fascinating at several levels, not least because of the one hundred pictures, almost all of them would be in an equivalent compilation circa 2002. The paintings include da Vinci's Mona Lisa, Bellini's Portrait of the Doge Lorendano, Rembrandt's Mother, Landseer's Shoeing the Bay Mare (wonderful) and Yeames'

When Did You Last See Your Father?

However, in this 1934 volume, there is no mention of the Impressionists; no examples of Monet, Manet, Van Gogh or even Cezanne. Velasquez is described as the greatest Spanish painter of all time, with Murillo in second place. I wonder if Professor Hare had even heard of Pica.s.so in 1934, and where he would place him in the lexicon of Spanish artists in 2002.

There are only two artists I have never come across before: John MacWhiter and Millet not Jean-Francois Millet, but an American, Francis David Millet. 'On the out'

I visit Tate Britain regularlyI live opposite, on the other side of the river but I don't remember seeing either MacWhiter's June in the Austrian Tyrol (magnificent), or Millet's Between Two Fires. I hope Sir Nicholas Serota has them on display, because Tate Britain will be among the first places I visit once I'm released.

In his foreword, Professor Hare writes something that, in my opinion, is even more relevant today than it was in 1934: There is so much nonsense spoken and written about art today that the average man is, naturally, inclined to be shy of the whole subject, and suspicious of those who practise the Arts. He thinks, if this ma.s.s of contradiction and confusing jargon is the result of the love of Art, he had better do without Art altogether. There is no mystery about Art, but there is mystification without end, evolved by certain critics who love to pose as superior persons. Such writers put forward the theory that the enjoyment of fine arts is reserved for a select and exclusive minority, meaning of course, themselves and their disciples. No greater error could be propounded than this, which is a comparatively modern fallacy and one which is so dangerous that if persisted, it must in time bring into contempt everything and everyone connected with Art.

1934. 2002. No comment.

1.00 pm Linda shuts up shop for the day and goes home for a well-earned rest. She has been on duty for the past nineteen days without a break.

9.00 pm I confess that, by prison standards, I am in heaven. But I feel I ought to let you know I'm still desperate to get back to earth.

DAY 162 - THURSDAY 27 DECEMBER 2001.

10.00 am Governor Lewis has received a call from Sir Brian Mawhinney, and although he can't divulge any details, he suspects the Shadow Home Secretary will be in touch with Mary who in turn will brief me. Mystery.

The governor sips his tea. 'As I'm leaving shortly, I'm going to tell you a story about a present member of staff who must remain anonymous. The officer concerned had a day off, and in the evening he and his wife went to their local for a drink. When they left the pub later, the officer saw a man trying to get his car started, but it sounded as if the battery was flat. The officer asked if he could help by giving a push. The driver said thank you and the officer pushed him out of the car park. The ignition caught, and the driver gave a toot of thanks as he disappeared over the horizon.

When the officer concerned returned to work the following morning, he learned that one of the inmates had absconded. The prisoner had even managed to steal a car from a local pub with the help of an obliging member of the public, who had given him a push start.'

'It can't be true,' I protest. 'Surely he recognized the prisoner?' (To be fair, there are over two hundred inmates at NSC and the turnover is often twenty to thirty a week.) 'You'd think so,' replied the governor, 'especially as the inmate was the only West Indian on the camp.'15 He laughs. The officer concerned might have even lived it down if it weren't for the fact that neither the prisoner nor the stolen car has been seen since.'

DAY 163 - FRIDAY 28 DECEMBER 2001.

11.07 am Whenever there's a serious injury in prison, the immediate question always asked is, 'Was another prisoner involved?' So when Linda and I are called over to the north block to check on an inmate who is thought to have broken his leg after slipping on the floor, Linda's first question is, 'Who pushed him?'

By the time we arrive the duty officers, Mr Hughes and Mr Jones, are present, and they are satisfied Ron has had a genuine accident.

However, there are several touches of irony in this particular case. The inmate involved is serving a six-week sentence, and is due to be released next Thursday. Last year he broke his left leg in a motorbike accident.

This time he has managed to break his right leg, and several of the pins in his left have been dislodged. Linda confirms that an officer must accompany him to hospital; although how he'd abscond with two broken legs is beyond me and why would he want to try, six days before he's due to be released?

However, regulations are regulations.

Normally you can't be released from prison unless you have been given a clean bill of health by the duty doctor, and in Ron's case it will be at least six weeks before the plaster comes off.

'We'll let him go,' Linda says, 'but only if a family member picks him up next Thursday and also agrees to take responsibility for him.'

'And if no one does?' I ask.

'Then he'll stay here until he's fully recovered.'

DAY 164 - SAt.u.r.dAY 29 DECEMBER 2001.

2.00 pm Mary, William and James visit me. We talk mainly of the legal issues surrounding my trial and appeal. The topic of conversation then turns to Baroness Nicholson. Mary has written to her asking for an apology.

Mary is off to Kenya with her sister Janet on Monday, a journey she has wanted to make for some years because of her love of cats, whatever their size.

What happened to our ninety minutes together?

6.00 pm I'm in my final writing session for the day when there's a knock on the door. This usually means that a prisoner has a headache and needs some paracetamol, which I am allowed to dispense as long as the inmate has a note from the duty officer. If it's something more serious, then his unit officer has to be consulted. I open my door and smile up at an inmate, who looks pretty healthy to me.

'Have you got any condoms, Jeff?' he asks.

'No,' I tell him, aware that Linda keeps a supply for prisoners going on weekend leave, or just about to be released, but even then she only gives them out very sparingly. 'If you report to surgery at seven-thirty tomorrow morning, Linda will...'

'It'll be too late by then,' he says. I look surprised. 'It's just that my sister visited me this afternoon and she hasn't got enough money to get home. A few of the lads are willing to pay her ten quid for a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b, which usually ends up with them going the whole way and ending up paying twenty.'

All of which begs several questions when possession of money in a prison is illegal. Is this an indoor or outdoor activity (it's minus two degrees outside) and is she really his sister?

'Sorry, I can't help,' is my only response, and after he has disappeared into the night. I try hard to concentrate on my writing.

DAY 165 - SUNDAY 30 DECEMBER 2001.

7.30 am The security officer on duty today enjoys his job, but never feels fulfilled until he's put someone on a charge. Mr Vessey rushes into surgery to see sister. During the night he's found fourteen empty bottles of vodka at the bottom of the skip by the entrance to the prison. A whispered conversation ensues, not that it takes a lot of imagination to realize that he's asking if any inmates checked into surgery this morning 'a little worse for wear'. Moments later, he rushes off to the south block.

In fact, very few inmates were on sick parade this morning as most of them are sleeping in, or sleeping it off, and the ones that appeared were genuinely ill. He will be disappointed.

10.00 am During the morning we have visits from Mr Lewis and Mr Berlyn, the new deputy governor, who join Linda for coffee. Mr Hocking is the next to arrive, with the news that five inmates have failed the breathalyser test.

Two of them are CSV workers, who could lose all their privileges. For example, they could be put back to work on the farm for the rest of their sentence.16 Mr Hocking tells me he doubts if the punishment will be that draconian, but the warning will be clear for the future.

Why would anyone risk losing so much for a couple of vodkas?

12 noon Linda leaves at midday so I spend four of the next six hours editing Belmarsh, volume one of these diaries.

7.00 pm During the evening I read Here is New York by E. B. White, which Will gave me for Christmas. One paragraph towards the end of the essay is eerily prophetic.

The subtlest change in New York is something people don't speak much about, but that is in everyone's mind. The city, for the first time in its long history, is destructible. A single flight of planes, no bigger than a wedge of geese, can quickly end this island fantasy, burn the towers, crumble the bridges, turn the underground pa.s.sages into lethal chambers, cremate the millions. The intimation of mortality is part of New York now; in the sound of jets overhead, in the black headlines of the latest edition.

This was written in 1949, and the author died in 1985.

DAY 166 - NEW YEAR'S EYE 2001 11.00 am Four new prisoners arrive at the hospital from Nottingham, looking lost and a little disorientated. I'm surprised that Group 4 has deposited them before lunch as they don't usually arrive until around four in the afternoon.

'It's New Year's Eve,' explains Linda.