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The prisoner

Peter Wayne in his winter retreat reports on playing a practical joke on a tiresome cockney

By Peter Wayne   December 1996

Lindholme, my winter retreat or (for readers not familiar with this column) new prison, is a converted RAF base somewhere out in the windy flat wilderness of south Yorkshire. Here, capacious abandoned aircraft hangars hem me in on one side, treacherous marshland flats on the other. In a flaking H-planned living block, I am ensconced in a pleasant enough little room with a bed screwed to the floor and a seven bar window. My neighbours hail from Sheffield, Halifax, Barnsley and Birmingham. We are on an eight week drug awareness course. For its duration we live communally.

There was one…

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