spoiler alert: this post makes reference to the January 12 episode on CBC
Her Majesty's Royal Minimum Security Detention Facility
(Camilla Parker-Bowles Wing)
My Dearest Fiz,
Not since the days when my Gran's cat, Slick, went missing have I been in the depths of such despair. It reminds me of that sublime 17th century poet, John Donne, who once wrote 'be thine own palace or the world's thy jail'. So true. It is a subtlety not lost on our thoughtful 'head screw' (Senior Warden, Malcolm Venables) but unfortunately the resonance is somewhat less for my cellmate whose enigmatic, single name is 'Meathook'.
Anyway, 'Meathook' and I were chatting yesterday about our loves (him: sodomy and daytime tv), (me: Jacobean poets and you) and I realized, yet again, how much trouble and hurt I have caused you. I still blame Rosie Webster for much of our misfortune. If it were not for her swanning around in tarty short skirts, tube tops and high heels (does she still do that by the way? The guys in cellblock 8 want to know every detail), maybe we would still be together.
But I digress. Life behind bars is dreadfully tedious. I spend my time writing letters to Oprah on behalf of 'Meathook' (his writing skills are minimal but don't get me started on the shortcomings of the British education system!), reading the great poets, avoiding showers and playing dodgeball in the exercise yard (very painful).
But I gladly endure the hardship and taunts ('pervy John', 'John d'oh' etc) thinking that perhaps you will read my letter and I imagine the day when I will be free (or on day parole) and I can perhaps see you once again, my dear Fiz.
Till then, I remain incarcerated & your loving soul (not cell) mate,
cc. Senior Warden