Ridiculous

I have had a letter from the prison service.

It wasn’t so much a letter as a small parcel.

It was full of policies and procedures and transcripts and evidence.

They are going to have a hearing to decide what to do about me.

I would like to say that I read it all through carefully, but actually I didn’t. I read the bits that I thought looked interesting and then put the rest back in the large envelope.

It is about an inch thick, written on both sides of the paper, and I thought that probably I had managed to get a fairly good precis from the bits that I read. If I have missed anything important then it will be my own idle fault and I deserve the consequences of ignorance.

My broad surmise from the bits that I read was that the prison service does not think that I should talk about it at all in daily diaries. Especially it does not think that I should make it look ridiculous. It is very upset about that.

I was surprised about that bit, because I had not tried to ridicule the prison. It  must have happened without my noticing, although I don’t imagine that it would constitute much of a defence to say so.

If I had been trying to make the prison service look ridiculous then we would all have known. Regular readers might remember what was said about the fire brigade once. Some of the firemen are still cross about it even now.

I supposed that it was inevitable, and thought with regret that it was only with the very greatest application of self-control that I have restrained myself. You will notice that I am not discussing its worst absurdities even now. This is not because I am worried about what they might do, but because somehow it does not seem fair, like doing sex with a pop star and then ringing the newspapers. Some things are below the belt, as well as uniform-issue polyester trousers.

There was a worried suggestion that I had only applied for the job in order to write about it.

There was a long list of things that I had said which they considered inappropriate.

It was a very long list.

I read that bit through with fascinated interest, and then retired back to my morning coffee to discuss it with Mark.

We contemplated my career prospects thoughtfully.

It is not easy to second guess what a mighty organisation like the Civil Service thinks about anything, but we thought that very probably the chances of my reaching the end of the investigative process and still having a job were fairly small. Minuscule is probably the best word.

I did not think that the picture they had painted of my rascally activities was especially fair, and certainly not accurate, but after some thought, decided that they were not trying to be fair. I think I probably ought not to tell you any of the details about what they have said, because of it being polyester trousers below the beltness, and so I won’t. They have paid me some very handy wages, which has been kind of them, and even though now they are going to facilitate my departure, I think for my part I will not complain.

However, I can share with you one tiny phrase which summed up, beautifully, I thought, the official viewpoint of my daily literary outpourings.

It said: “Officer Ibbetson continues attempting to be humorous.”

I think I can infer from this that the end of my civil service career is now in sight.

I suppose my unsuitability was confirmed by that fact that it was several hours later before it occurred to me that there might be a way in which I could preserve my employed status.

I could simply apologise, agree that I had written inappropriately mocking remarks, accept that I should not have done it, and promise not to write any more ever.

This option had not even crossed my mind, and when it did, my mind rejected it without even examining it.

I am the sort of person who would have been beaten to death in the Chinese Cultural Revolution.

If you don’t wish to be ridiculed, don’t be ridiculous.

I think it is a relief.

I discussed it with the family this afternoon. Oliver said that he liked the house best when I was in it, and would be glad if I did not go and work on the other side of Cumbria, which was kind, and Mark said that I would never make a fortune working for the civil service, but I might do if I wrote a book.

I can join the gym if I am not a prison officer.

I do not have to book holidays if I want to go and see the children at school.

I can help Mark to build the conservatory and to plant trees on the field.

I can make these pages public again.

We went for a walk afterwards, to blow it all out of my head, and I took the photograph.

I think that my life is probably all right as it is.