I’d be better off back inside. Three meals a day, warm bed every night, company. Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to eat.
The thing about jail is… you get used to it. Most people don’t understand that. Am I supposed to get used to living under the bridge, getting kicked by teenagers and fucked by everyone else? Perish the thought, old bean!
So… action plan: hammer, crowbar, balaclava (one likes to look the part), nip round to C Block and effect a seamless entry. The prodigal son returns! Big hug from the warden (‘My boy! you’ve come back!’), welcoming smiles from all and sundry, welcoming smell of bleach from the laundry. Home.