I wear green trousers now. Putting them on is almost an existential act. In Belmarsh, they mark me out as a cleaner, whereas I have always thought of myself as an artist. They are a much-needed badge of status, though. Without them, I would be locked up all day in my cell.
And because I could hardly bear this, having tasted the freedom of being allowed out, I spend the hours pushing a broom or mopping the floor, indulging in a few tongue-tied conversations with my fellow cleaners. Or I do my own special job, making up the induction packs—stuffing…
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