I am free.
I am giddily, happily, surprisingly free.
I did not get sacked.
I walked into the meeting today and handed in my resignation.
There were several reasons for this, but one of the most important ones was the realisation that a part of me was really hoping very hard that I would not have to go back and work at the prison any more.
Mark drove me over in the camper van, and we were almost there when this revelation occurred to me.
I turned our CD story off and consulted him on the subject.
What if, I said, what if I did not wait to see that the prison had decided, but made my own decision instead?
There were two things I could do. I could promise never again to write anything that might upset the prison service, which obviously in real terms means ‘never write anything at all’.
I thought that if I did that they would probably let me stay.
The other thing that I could do was leave.
There was no point whatsoever, I thought, in hoping that I could carry on writing diaries or even emails or Facebook entries, and maintain gainful employment with the Civil Service.
Also, as Number Two Daughter had wisely pointed out, if they wanted to have a decent reason to sack me, all they really needed to do was let me carry on working there for a few days and it was very likely that I would soon give them one.
No matter what happened my days would be numbered.
Mark listened sensibly, and said that I should just do whatever I thought would be the happiest choice, and not something that would make me angry or frustrated or miserable.
Then he parked the camper van in the car park and took the dogs off to wee on the security fences.
I had dressed in my Officer Ibbetson costume for the occasion.
It was nice to put this on, apart from the polyester trousers. It was crisp and sensible and businesslike and does not make me look fat.
Then I presented myself at the security gate for identification. I shall never, ever be in charge of opening it now.
The Governor had been delayed in another meeting, and so a friendly man from the Prison Officers’ Association came to meet me. He gave me a cup of coffee, and asked me how I was feeling.
It was odd to be in the prison again, and I liked it so much that suddenly I wanted to stay, badly. I wanted very much to help people and listen to them and make them less frightened when the steel doors slam.
The POA man said that he felt like that about it as well.
We talked it all through, and he said that he had no idea what would happen, but that I ought to do what I thought was right: and then somebody came to get us and we were on.
Actually I was on. I went in by myself.
The prison had tried very hard to persuade me that another prison officer should come with me, in case I was frightened, because of these things being upsetting and scary.
I did not think that I would be less upset or scared just because somebody else was there. In any case, I thought that probably a prison governor would not be very scary. Taxi customers have taken lots of drugs and drink, carry knives in their pockets, wave their willies about and try and steal your money, and I am not even scared of them.
I was not expecting the prison governor to do any of those things, so I thought that probably I would be all right.
You will not be surprised to hear that he did not do any of those things, and it was just fine.
He was softly-spoken and kindly and anxious-looking, and had invited a tiny lady down from the civil service’s central casting office to make sure that everything went all right.
The meeting was taped.
It started off with everybody gravely saying their names and roles into the tape machine. This was when I realised that really I had got no reasonable choice other than to resign.
It came to my turn and I had to bite my tongue hard so that I would give a sensible answer, and not to say: “Sarah Ibbetson. Wicked Person.”
This was when I realised that being an idiot is in fact my default setting.
It is not something that I try to do. It is what happens unless I am very careful. By nature I am actually a pillock. I cannot be trusted with a sensible uniform.
The prison governor started to explain the process, and I stopped him. I said that actually, I thought that probably the best thing that I could do would be to resign.
He was very nice indeed. He said that we ought to stop and think about it, and that he did not want me to do anything that I would regret. He said that his job today was to follow proper procedure and investigate the circumstances.
I said that there wasn’t much point in that since we all knew the circumstances and it was perfectly obvious that I had done everything they said that I had. I write a diary, and therefore it was entirely clear that I was guilty.
We talked for a little while, and somehow it all turned out to be a bit emotional. I explained about liking the prison and feeling sad, but that I did not think that I could promise not to write things. He was quiet and careful but we both knew that I could not carry on writing diaries in the prison service.
Probably, really, I could not have carried on writing anything at all. The prison service likes to know what its officers are doing. This is very sensible if your job is to lock up dangerous people. It is not good even to send emails to people or put your name on Facebook. The prison service needs to be sure that you are not secretly telling the world what time prisoners go to bed or what they have for breakfast.
In the end he accepted my resignation, and we shook hands. We wished one another well, and both meant it. He said that I would have to give my prison trousers back, which I didn’t mind, although I was sorry about the boots.
I came out feeling about half a stone lighter, which misfortunately I wasn’t. I rushed over to the camper van where Mark was fitting the new carpet and told him all about it. Then I peeled the Officer Ibbetson costume off and put my taxi driving clothes back on, the ones with the paw prints and paint splashes.
I took the uniform back to the stores. Mark came with me, because there was quite a bit to carry.
On my way back to the camper van I jumped in the air and clicked my heels, by way of a final farewell to the cameras. This was only a bit spoiled when it turned out that I had left my driving licence, two tampons and a handkerchief in the uniform pockets, and so had to go back again and ask for them.
We went for a walk on the beach in the glorious January sunshine, and I thought that it was lovely to be unemployed. The dogs careered about barking, and we strolled happily together.
When we got home Mark got on with building the new cupboard and I made some shortbread with chocolate and cherries.
It is going to be just fine.
The picture of the new cupboard is below. I thought I would try the clever camera angle for myself.
