So how do people here socialise? What groups do people gravitate into? And is it possible to make friends in jail?

Recently, I’ve been trying to understand how the hall splits itself up into different peer groups. As I write this, there’s part of me that’s reluctant to categorise people. But then again, as I picture the hall or the Astroturf in my head, particular groupings do form in my mind. Like everywhere, each of us seeks companionship from others that we feel comfortable with – people we can strike up a conversation with, share a news with, and laugh with. People who help to give purpose to each day.

As I look out of my cell and around the hall now, I see that one pool table is surrounded by five or six under-30s. It still makes me chuckle that the older guys in the hall have nicknamed this group “No Direction” (a reference to the pop group “One Direction). Outside of jail, their lives were dominated by the alternative reality provided by X-Box. Each one experienced much of his hash-hazed world through the eyes of an avatar. But, of course, they have other identities too: in the hours that they spend in the ‘real world’ they were cyclists… wild campers… partners… fathers.

Here in prison they chat about X-Box, vaping, films, music… They also discuss their exercise regimes, comparing notes on press-ups, crunches and make-shift weights (several guys, myself included, have made weights by filling laundry bags with 2-litre coke bottles).

At the other pool table I see the other group of under-30s. These are the guys who I was warned to avoid (several times) when I first came to the hall. “Keep away from that lot and you’ll be alright” they said. Looking back now, I realize that this was an unnecessary warning: a couple of days ago I played tennis with some of them. It was probably the most fun I’ve had since I arrived here over half a year ago.

As I look further down the hall I see a table of four silver-haired Over-50s / 60s, playing dominos and making jovial banter. Their chat is gentle, cheeky and kind. I imagine them sitting around my grandfather’s kitchen table… or enjoying a pint at my local pub. There is always a sense of warmth at this table.

Close to them I see a table of two or three ‘long-termers’ guys who are serving 30+ years in jail. Now in their 40s and 50s, they are still being punished for crimes committed when they were in their teens and twenties. One was 17 when he was sentenced, and is now in his mid-40s. He is gentle, kind and diligent in the work that he does as a cleaner here in the hall. I know that I will think of these guys for the rest of my life. I will think of all that they have lost, and I will feel sad that we as a society chose never to forgive them.

At another table I see three or four ‘miscellaneous’ guys, plus another three or four who move comfortably between groups. These guys don’t really fall into any of the other categories. Perhaps I am one of them… which makes me wonder how the other ‘groups’ would categorise me….

All of these groupings account for two-thirds of the hall’s inhabitants. The remaining third tend to do what everyone ‘on the outside’ advised me to do just before I was sentenced: they keep themselves to themselves and hide away in their rooms. They are “The Sleepers”, having retreated to a world of TV quizzes and reality shows. They snooze as much as their minds and bodies will allow.

One guy explained that he is too anxious and afraid to come out of his room. He can be seen walking to and from the showers every morning, and collecting his meals from the food service area twice a day, but other than that he is invisible. We exchange “Hi”s whenever we pass one another, but I expect many people have never even noticed him. I don’t even know his name. Another guy once said to me “A good day is a day when I’m asleep all the time.”

A number of inmates have said to me over the last few months that no-one ever makes real friends in jail. But I have not found this to be true. There are around 15 people who I speak to most days, 10 of whom I chat with every day. And of these, I can say that when the time comes for me to leave prison, there are eight people that I would really like to stay in touch with. In my mind, I have imagined meeting them… out there… beyond the walls. Perhaps it will be on a windswept beach, or in a lively cafe, or around a cosy kitchen table.

The first is my cell mate, who I care for very much. He’s the ultimate ‘Sleeper’! We tease each other gently and live alongside one another remarkably well in this little 5m x 3m concrete box. I think that had we met in different circumstances we would enjoy more banter and would share smiles more often. But as it is, I think we are both just happy to be able to coexist, and to tolerate each other’s farts and TV choices. Between us, there is trust, disgust, laughter, exasperation and fondness. Every night we say “Good night, I hope you sleep better than last night”… and we truly mean it.

The second person that I would call “friend” is a wonderful chatterbox in the ‘Miscellaneous’ category. He’s great fun and absolutely never at a loss for words. Even on his most stressed-out days, when most people would take on a quiet sombre persona, he remains bright and engaging.

The third, another Miscellany, is like a walking festival of quirky geekiness. Very defensive and fast to react, he has a tendency to make enemies. But to me, from the moment I met him he was a breath of fresh air. With his jokey banter and cheery smile, we found plenty to geek about, and quickly formed a trusting relationship.

The fourth, also in the ‘Miscellaneous’ category, is one of my little Romanian buddies. Although communication is tricky and neither of us shows much aptitude for learning the other’s language, we have developed a caring and playful friendship, with much laughter. I would love to one day visit him and his mum’s farm… I would feed the chickens… he and his mum would teach me how to stew goat … and together we would prepare a feast in celebration of family and friendship!

The fifth is a member of ‘No Direction’, and is one of our new arrivals. As soon as he appeared in the hall, I was struck by the ‘normalness’ of the way he chatted… without ranting or butting in. He spoke and listened in equal measure. He sweated profusely and his skin was red and blotchy – the effects of having plied his body with alcohol and hash for the last two years. I was disgusted by his cold sweaty handshake, and amazed at his chirpiness. I instantly liked him.

The sixth is like the granddad of the hall. He’s one of the Dominos players and has a kind and gentle way about him. ‘No Direction’ members can sometimes be seen walking round the Astroturf with him, gaining a sense of reassurance and calm from this genuine and trustworthy soul. He resists every temptation to gossip and never allows his anger or frustration to come to the surface. I have a great deal of respect for him.

The seventh is a guy who I bonded with over our shared love of the outdoors. I have enjoyed long conversations with him, including the tales of poaching deer, salmon and rabbit. Arrows, spears and snares were everyday tools to him in the outside world. I love the fact that he never tires of my curious nature and enless questions.

The last of my buddies, by ‘best friend’ here is one of the silver-haired guys… though I’ve never seen him play dominos. We do crosswords together and regularly update one another on the progress of our windowsill allotments. He taught me how to make yogurt and more recently we’ve been comparing notes on cider-making. Out on the Astroturf, we chat about the bizarreness of “all this”… of crazy inmates and crazier staff… of articles that we’ve read in the paper and documentaries that we’ve watched on T.V. I would love to meet his family one day – to laugh with his wife, and to tell his son what a wonderful father he has.

I often imagine going for a walk on the beach after my release. Wide-eyed and wide-skied, I will shed a few tears as I think of these eight inspiring human beings, still stuck in their concrete boxes, some of them for another 10 years or more. I will cry for the crimes that they have committed… for the people that they have wronged… for the damage that they have inflicted on their own selves… for the pain that they have caused to their families.

I will think of them, but in truth my tears will be as much for myself.