Category: Uncategorized

Face of older woman, Audrey Edwards

Audrey Edwards (1934-2025): the first Longford Prize winner

Author: | 19 Jan 2025

In 2002 the first-ever recipient of our Longford Prize was Audrey Edwards, whose campaign with her husband Paul to improve mental health provision in prisons was prompted by the death in jail of their son. The trust’s director, Peter Stanford, and others reflect on what an impact she made on them and the prison system.

Audrey Edwards was a remarkably-effective campaigner who stuck in the memory, but also an unlikely one, as her husband Paul acknowledges.  Audrey was, Paul says, ‘not one to fight on the barricades. By nature she was a sensitive and reserved individual.’  Yet together they sustained a decade-long battle following the death in Chelmsford Prison of their 30-year-old son, Christopher. They wanted to see better and better-informed treatment for those in jail with mental illness. Or, better still, for them not to be held in prisons.

Christopher was mentally-ill when he was detained for breach of the peace in November 1994. At Chelmsford, he was put in a cell with a paranoid schizophrenic who murdered him.  The Edwards’ brave and tenacious fight was to hold to account the public bodies who had contributed to their son’s death, and to make sure that no other parents would suffer the same appalling loss in such avoidable circumstances as they had.

The courage to move forward from personal tragedy

In 2002, our judging panel on which I sat offered this citation when awarding Audrey the Longford Prize. ‘Audrey and her husband Paul began a quest to find out what happened to their son that has developed into a campaign to improve mental health care for offenders.  The judges were greatly impressed by the courage with which Audrey Edwards had moved forward from personal tragedy to focus public attention on mental health and prisons.’

Remembering her today, another member of that panel, Juliet Lyon CBE, the long-serving director of our partner organisation, the Prison Reform Trust, writes: ‘it takes such courage and generosity of spirit to turn a terrible tragedy into something which could save the lives of others. Audrey’s work with Paul inspired some important changes in prisons from the introduction of basic mental health training for prison staff to assessment of people’s mental health prior to cell-sharing. Sadly the misuse of prison as a place of safety for people who are mentally ill continues to this day.’

David versus Goliath

Audrey received her award on stage in November 2002 from our first Longford Lecturer, Cherie Booth, celebrated human rights lawyer who was also the wife of Prime Minister, Tony Blair.  In the same year, Audrey published a memoir, No Truth, No Justice, which described what she characterised as a David versus Goliath struggle to get the police, the NHS and the prison service to address the failures that had led to Christopher’s death.

And in what proved a significant year in her battle, 2002 also saw a case the couple had taken to the European Court of Human Rights upheld. It ruled that Christopher’s right to life had been denied by his treatment after his arrest. Their campaign continued in the years that followed and they worked closely with Martin Narey who ran the Prison Service from 1998 to 2005. He was determined like them to improve treatment of those with mental illness in prisons and, to that end, commissioned a film featuring Audrey which was shown to all new prison officers during their training.

Disappointingly, it ceased to be used after Narey moved on, but the Edwards’ work did not stop, though Paul’s diagnosis with cancer saw it scaled back. They would comfort and advise other families who found themselves in the same dreadful circumstances that they had experienced.

‘Her strength and determination,’ says Paul, who survives Audrey along with their daughter Clare, ‘came from a mother’s devotion to her son, and from her Christian faith. She really believed that we must all try and do good in this world.’  Her example will live on. RIP

Running Up That Hill

Author: | 19 Nov 2024

As part of our Employability programme, we offer travelling scholarships to our award holders to enable them to see the world and build their skills and CVs.  This autumn two scholars attended the ‘Haven for Stories’ writers’ retreat in Umbria.  Here, one of them, Tim Kerr reflects on what he discovered.

The sun shone brightly on our final day in Umbria, piercing the Ryanair windows on the Saturday morning flight. It had rained most of the week of course, but I still squeezed in runs up and down the deserted Umbrian paths, looking over valleys bathed in mist and fog, occasional castle brick or terracotta roof poking through. The roaring wood fires and dark espressos on my return to Villa Pia would warm me back up, but the mist on the landscape would remain, symbolic of my state of writing.

I used to write more, in times where my experiences seemed more relevant, with something new to be unearthed by the process. I wrote when I was in prison. I wrote when I was released from prison. I wrote traipsing between the probation office and the DWP. Then, later on, as life settled, writing took a backseat to increasing work and further study. But like backseat drivers do, it nagged, and prompted me to apply to go on this writing retreat advertised in the Longford Trust’s Bulletin. It wanted to drown out the other backseat driver, the one who doubts.

Writer’s block

So now, I’m here, the week I’d been looking forward to for months: a retreat, away from work and with a stable internet connection. I thought I’d be free to write thousands of words a day, setting habits to make productivity gurus insist I take breather. But I couldn’t. Sure, I was sleep deprived. Stanstead was grey even under dawn light. But now I was faced with everything I’d wanted to write over the years, and struggled to pluck the most salient idea to commit to paper.

Movement, I’ve found, helps organise thoughts. And as the tutors, Alice, Elise, and Toby, explained on our first night, the writing is usually done in all the spaces where we aren’t scribing or typing. So, during a walk on the second day, through steps and jumps over puddles and branches, I discussed with Toby Bayesian statistics, medical negligence, and also my improbable and surprising life thus far. Ever the story teller, he talked about applying narrative structure to my experiences. We settled on me being arrested as the inciting incident to begin my story.

The feel of the foam mattress

Sat in the library of Villa Pia that evening, overlooking those misty hills, I tried writing about the night I got arrested: the feel of the foam mattress, the noises in the other cells, the thoughts juddering through my mind. But I was just directing words towards a memory I was no longer interested in.

I explained this to Alice in our tutorial the next day. And I came to the realisation that the point of this retreat, ‘Haven for Stories’, was not to write but to discover. Havens offer the protection to be open, and admit my utter boredom in writing about prison and drugs, the stuff I thought others wanted to read. Instead, I vowed to lean into a deep unknown: my father, who died when I was eleven, and who I know so little about. I committed to blogging this journey, as a regular writing practice, with Alice showing me the best platforms to use.

In a workshop the next day with Elise, I delved into my father as a character. Through writing exercises, I put myself in his shoes, and lived his formative years, imagining the things I never got to ask him. In a tutorial later we discussed how to research someone, including researching the places that shaped them. My trips to his birthplace, Glasgow, were mentally booked. Sadly, my knackered imagination was unable to visualise any airline besides Ryanair.

Deep and layered like lasagne

Over the week I was subsumed into Italian villa culture, thanks to Morag Cleland’s excellent staff at Villa Pia. The conversations I had with the other writers on the retreat were deep and layered, like the lasagne we had on Wednesday, which, incidentally, I learned does not have to have a tomato sauce within it. It’s just an arrangement of pasta. You can put what you like in there.

I could delve into the lives of others, and reciprocate, only possible through staying put, not reaching for my phone, persevering through every variety of carbohydrate as I slowly lost my obsession with productivity. Handy, as the sleep deprivation continued, half a tray of tiramisu at 10pm fully reflected by my mediocre Garmin sleep score.

Near the end of the week, I ran up to the highest point in the region. It was so misty I couldn’t see more than a few paces ahead of me. There was no view at the top, just turf churned up by tractor wheels. I ran back down, below the mist, and caught up with Toby again that afternoon. We now had a beginning, a structure, people and places to research. The fog was clearing. A parallel tale of my father and me. I didn’t need good writing habits, I now had motivation.

Reading aloud

On the final night, I read the work I’d developed throughout the week to the group. The other inciting incident in my life, the moment my father died, in 500 or so words. I felt privileged that I had a had an audience, and equally privileged that I could hear and be part of their work, too. Whilst writing is a solitary pursuit, the life that creates it is a team sport. I left Villa Pia with people to keep in touch with, on similar journeys, writing buddies, accountability, and maybe the odd person who will read my languid blogs.

I brought the sun home with me, and took it with me on my usual Sunday run around Hampstead Heath, the paths busy with people, priorities, dogs and prams. But the ascent of Parliament Hill was the easiest it’s ever been, my legs strong from the Umbrian valleys. I arrived at the crest, the view over the city clearer than usual. No mist, no fog, I could see where I was going. The rest of the journey would be downhill.

Our thanks to the Henry Oldfield Trust, to Villa Pia’s owner Morag Cleland, and to the writing tutors Tobias Jones, Elise Valmorbida and Alice Vincent for making our Travelling Scholarships to attend A Haven For Stories possible.

The barriers and the benefits of starting a degree in prison

Author: | 29 Sep 2024

Our new Longford Scholar Daniel Bracher, recently released from prison and completing his degree this academic year, reflects on what made him want to study, the challenges he faced, and why it has transformed his future. He urges others to give it a go!

Walking out of court and into custody is an experience that leaves an indelible mark. For many, it’s the start of a bleak chapter filled with negativity from all sides. For others, it can be a downward spiral, where circumstances continue to deteriorate.

I count myself as one of the fortunate few. Despite the challenges of custodial sentences, I was presented in prison with an opportunity to better myself and my prospects, and to transform the way I spent my time there. The cornerstone of that opportunity was education—more specifically, my decision to pursue a degree through The Open University.

At first, the decision to study was motivated by a simple desire to avoid wasting time. Prison offers little more than time, and I didn’t want to let it slip by without doing something productive. However, what started as a practical choice to fill the hours behind locked doors soon became a vital mental and emotional lifeline. Studying gave me a focus, a goal, and an incredibly effective way to distract myself from the often-harsh realities of life inside.

 What It Takes to Study Behind Bars

Studying in prison is far from straightforward. For one thing, there is no access to the internet. In an age when information is at everyone’s fingertips, trying to complete a degree without it feels like running a marathon in the dark. Library resources were scarce, and what little material was available was outdated. On top of that, navigating the interpersonal minefield that is our prison system presented its own challenges. It wasn’t uncommon to encounter delays in receiving course materials, difficulties in communicating with the university, and issues with organising my student loans.

There were also more subtle barriers. The prison environment isn’t exactly conducive to study, with frequent interruptions, limited quiet space and the overall atmosphere of confinement. Moreover, the inhumane COVID-19 lockdown measures within prisons meant that any chance to form study groups or connect meaningfully with fellow inmates who were students too was next to impossible. While I was fortunate enough to bond with a few others, the opportunities to fully collaborate or support each other were minimal.

Problem-Solving and Perseverance

Navigating these obstacles required ingenuity and perseverance. Every practical problem—from gaining access to essential resources to figuring out how to contact my university for support—was compounded by a system that often seemed indifferent, if not outright obstructive. I quickly learned that success wouldn’t come easy. There were times when it felt like the odds were stacked against me, and I had to get creative to find solutions.

Beyond the practical, there were also the political challenges within the prison system. Not every staff member was willing to support educational pursuits. In fact, finding staff who were both willing and able to help was rare. Many times, I had to advocate for myself, push through red tape, and take the initiative to overcome barriers that could have easily derailed my studies, and for many does. Without resilience and determination, I’m confident that my final degree classification would have been much lower.

Getting Help

Not all prison staff fit the negative description above. There is a select few who go above and beyond, offering invaluable support to inmates who want to better themselves. These individuals are rare gems, and they can make all the difference. However, the prison system is often a lottery—you don’t get to choose your establishment or the staff within it. For those lucky enough to encounter staff who genuinely care, the impact can be sentence-altering.

My own experience made me keen to share what I learned with fellow inmates. Every chance I got, I encouraged others to consider studying or pursuing something productive during their sentences. I wanted them to benefit from the hard-earned lessons I had learned, so they could avoid some of the pitfalls and obstacles that I faced.

How It Has Changed Me

Looking back, I realise that my decision to pursue education in prison was about much more than simply passing the time. It was about taking control of my future in a situation where so much fell out of my hands. Completing my degree now I am out will be a personal achievement that gives me a sense of purpose, structure, and hope. It has already showed me that in the worst of circumstances, opportunities for growth and improvement can still exist.

For others in similar situations, the road may not be easy, but education can be a powerful tool for transformation. It offers not just the possibility of a better future but a way to navigate the challenges of the present.

 If you are a Longford Scholar, past or present, and would like to write a blog for us, contact Clare Lewis

Not Giving Up

Author: | 16 Apr 2021

The pandemic has disrupted so many students’ plans and dreams. It has presented unprecedented challenges to people in prison who are studying to turn their lives around. Many Longford scholars have spent the last year studying online when they had imagined learning in a university lecture hall.

For psychology student and scholar Chris Leslie the pandemic became a matter of life or death. Here he tells his own story….

I wake up extremely groggy with a bad nightmare ‘hangover’. My bed is surrounded by nurses and doctors. I remember telling myself thank God I’m awake, I must have slept for ages. The doctors reassure me I’m OK but I know something isn’t right. I try to speak – nothing comes out. Finally, I manage to push out a few raspy words.

I’ve been in intensive care for 4 weeks.

I’d better explain how I got there.

One moment I was sitting in an almost empty (due to Covid) university library applying myself to my psychology degree, the next I’m stuck in my student flat having contracted the virus and trying to keep up with two weeks’ worth of bio- and social psychology reading. I’d borrowed the books from the library – a big moment in itself, as I’m ashamed to say it was the first time I’d taken books out. Considering I’m a second year student, very ashamed!

Anyway, I’d hoped the books would see me through my isolation. Little did I know.

Up until Day 3 I was reading and making well informed notes. I’d be fine in a few days, surely? By Day 5 the pain had become immense.  I’m unable to read or even get out of bed, but I’m still positive. I’ll be back to study soon. Day 12 and unfortunately my breathing has become harder and I’ve rung the doctors who send an ambulance. On the way to hospital I have a lovely conversation with the paramedics about my psychology degree and the age old question comes up, “Are you going to analyse us then?” The doctors say my oxygen is low but not to worry.  I go to sleep, I’m shattered.

When I wake up I ask for dinner, I’m starving and cheeky me is hoping for some Christmas treats. The nurse replies with a sad look in her eyes, her mask covering her mouth, “It’s January 17th”. What?? I assume she’s got it wrong. She tells me I’ve been in a coma but not to worry I’m fine. Coma? I’ve only been asleep one day what on earth is she talking about? I’m shocked, saddened and puzzled all in one emotion.

The nurse’s eyes well up and simultaneously I’m telling myself, “Smile Chris, this must be a mistake.”

I quickly realise I have no feelings in my legs. The medical staff tell me I’ve been ‘really poorly’, in intensive care for a month. I’ve lost so much muscle from the legs that I can’t walk. Never did I think covid would have this effect on me. Covid-19

Since the pandemic first struck last year, I’d often wondered how it would affect my studies. Never did I think it would play out like this. This after all was the year I was giving my studies 100% effort because, if I’m honest with myself, until this point I hadn’t given it my all. It felt cruel when, after my first submission of the 2020-21 academic year, I caught Covid-19 despite attending lectures online and me personally adhering to all social distancing measures, wearing a mask and gloves. And yet, it still got me.

Three weeks after waking up in hospital I attempt to log on to my university portal.  I couldn’t remember my password. Even worse I couldn’t remember my email. How can this be so? Covid-19. Brain fog.

My life pre-study is not one I’m proud of, however since studying I’m incredibly proud of myself. I tell myself, “Focus Chris you’ve got this. Covid 19, you will not win.”

More than one month since waking up to my own nightmare, I’m home now.  My mobility still isn’t great. Learning to walk again can be frustrating to say the least but I’m determined and I’ve realised that’s half the battle. One day it hit me, there’s no way I could go on studying so soon after almost dying. I’ve had to face up to reality. I have to get back to full fitness, then go back to uni.

I’m disappointed, sad that it feels like I’ve let down everybody who has supported me. Often in the past I’ve thought about quitting studies for good as I have already repeated year 1 and 2.  The prospect of repeating again is emotionally draining.

But, as I keep reminding myself, I must get better first then return to study.

So, at the time of writing this, with the full backing of everyone, I’ve decided to put my degree on pause. I’ll pick up again in September. I’m keeping myself focused by doing some flexible work on my social enterprise and I can honestly say I’m happy. I started my education journey in 2017 and I have had to work my behind off.

I’m incredibly fortunate to be alive, let alone study. I still have my mental faculties, my brain is intact (somewhat).

There’s no way a bug will stop me.

if I have any advice to somebody going back to education after a long absence, it’s that life happens. Things that you never expect to happen, happen! Your resilience is all you need to get through. Studying gave me a new perspective, a new outlook on life, something to be truly proud of. I may have a mountain to climb but I’m going to graduate and I will become a counselling psychologist one day. I will not give up, I can beat Covid.

 

 

A writer & Longford scholar compare notes on how to make prisons places of reform

Author: | 28 Jul 2020

Going to prison wasn’t part of the plan. Neither for writer and filmmaker Chris Atkins nor for classics student and Longford scholar Nahshon.

Here they meet to discuss what they have learnt from their time inside…

Chris Atkins is a BAFTA nominated film maker who was sent to prison for tax fraud in 2016. I have also been to prison and had my studies interrupted. I was keen to meet Chris about his recent book A Bit of a Stretch: The Diaries of a Prisoner where he talks about his experiences living at Her Majesty’s Pleasure.  Due to the COVID-19 outbreak the interview took place on Zoom, something I was apprehensive about at first; it can be daunting enough building a rapport face-to-face, let alone in the virtual world. I shouldn’t have worried. A calm, probably brought on by our shared experiences, quickly set the tone.

Chris Atkins went into prison, as many others undoubtedly have, frightened, broken and despondent. Despite sharing those feelings with most newly sentenced prisoners, Chris Atkins was, for want of a better term, no ‘ordinary’ prisoner.

A public school, white, Oxford University educated film maker, Chris, like me, kept a diary to  process the flush of emotions that besieged him in the early stages of his sentence. A record he continued to keep in Wandsworth, his first prison.

 I, a young black student studying at a Russell Group University, also decided a diary would help me to make sense of my time behind bars. My diary was purely personal. I wrote about daily feelings and challenges. Chris, however, went further. With his background as a filmmaker he had a unique skill to bring good to an ostensibly glum state of affairs- the skill of storytelling.

It was not initially Chris’ intention to produce a dissection of the inadequacies of the UK prison system. However, early on in his sentence he began to understand just how broken the prison system was and how unconducive it is to rehabilitation.

The impact of relationships: inside and out

The focal point of the early part of our discussion was the relationships you form and maintain inside, and what effect this might have on rehabilitation.

In A Bit of a Stretch, I am struck by the times Chris received letters and his cellmate got none. I too experienced this. In fact, Chris and I both got lots of letters, which felt like symbols of true love from those we were separated from. A simple handwritten letter brings a loved one close. That said, it is quite normal for people in prison not to receive a letter in a week, even a month. A quick side note here, phone calls are extortionately priced, so some people experience long periods of silence from loved ones.

I recall one cellmate of mine expecting letters which never came. Chris and I both noted the sense of guilt we felt in these situations. At times, I would hide my letters for fear of inflicting jealousy on my fellow inmates. I need to be honest here though, staying in touch properly was by no means plain sailing for either of us. Visits were ridiculously hard to organise. For the first month or so of his sentence Chris couldn’t see his young son, despite providing all the required information.

It is often argued, and rightly so, that maintaining the relationships between friends and family on the outside is the key to rehabilitation. It is not in the government’s power to force prisoners’ families to write them letters. However, it seems perfectly reasonable to ask them not to place obstacles in the way of prisoners and their loved ones. I can tell you from what I saw, if people don’t have contact with their family and friends on the outside, there is a distinct risk they replace that need for contact with others on the inside who may not be a positive influence.  You see this with younger prisoners who can be vulnerable to older, more ‘seasoned’ prisoners.

As Chris discovered, the relationships you form in prison is a game changer. Take one cellmate, Martyn, who was one of the only reasons he was able to get through the first few months of his sentence, ‘the thin line between sanity and madness’ he called it. For those who stumble across to the latter side of the line there is scant support.

The art of listening in a ‘warehouse for the mentally ill’

Chris spent much of his sentence working as a Listener: these people were tasked with talking to seriously troubled prisoners who didn’t want to deal with officers. It often involved talking people out of suicide. Wandsworth prison, where Chris spent the first half of his sentence, was in his words: ‘a warehouse for the mentally ill’. Most of these troubled minds were ignored which could and has resulted in fatal consequences.

Take the tragic case of teenager Osvaldas Pagirys, for example. He was an 18-year-old who was arrested for stealing sweets. Despite being found with a noose on five separate occasions in prison he was largely ignored and killed himself.

Prisoners should not be babied but how can this be justice?

Time to be bold: rethinking education, work and beyond

For myself and writer Chris this is where education can offer a lifeline – not just in terms of personal happiness and safety but also as a means of staying on a generally positive track. Chris Atkins has a bold proposal,

‘If prisoners are literate, they are less likely to reoffend […] give them a month off their sentence if they pass GCSE English.’

An outlandish proposal perhaps but illustrates a potent point. It is no secret that offenders have had disproportionately vulnerable childhoods, often excluded from school. Many in prison are there because of a failure of the British education and social care systems. No crime is excusable, mine or anyone’s. However, it is to my mind not unreasonable to ask that people who were failed by the system are adequately supported by the system. Perhaps it would be excessively generous to give prisoners time off their sentence as an incentive to educate themselves, perhaps not.

There needs to be a serious rethink of how to encourage prisoners into work and away from crime.

Too often prisons are universities of crime. They don’t have to be and they shouldn’t be.

Chris and I are living proof of this. I have successfully resumed my studies; Chris has written a book and is raising public awareness of the failings of the criminal justice system. We have been able to do this with educational tools and supportive families at our disposal.

Hope drove my rehabilitation. Hope that one day I have a realistic chance of success; a stable job, a roof over my head, a family and the means to provide for them. For Chris and I there was always light at the end of the tunnel, just as there should be for every prisoner inside.

 

The power of letter-writing

Author: | 6 Apr 2020

The power of a letter in a crisis and beyond by mentor Clare Lewis

 ….like someone extending their hand out, reaching across a divide

In the current Covid-19 lockdown, a hand of friendship in the form of a letter could be an extremely simple and effective way for mentors to help break through the visible and invisible walls of isolation that surround their mentees. Especially if they are in prison.

For the past three years, I have had the privilege of mentoring James (as I am going to call him here), a talented and hardworking Longford Scholar studying inside for an OU degree. The opportunities for face-to-face meetings at the two prisons he has been in so far are limited – I aim to visit once an academic term – and digital forms of contact are not an option. Although the prison education officers are responsive to emails and willing to act as go-betweens, I feel it’s not fair to take advantage of their good nature. So, in order to maintain more regular and specific contact with James, I have taken to letter-writing.

In the footsteps of history...

We are following a path starting in Ancient India, Ancient Egypt through Rome, Greece and China. Archives of correspondence, whether for personal, diplomatic or business reasons, are also an invaluable primary source for historical research. In the 17th and 18th century letters were used to self-educate as well as offering the opportunity to practice critical reading, self-expressive writing, polemical writing, and the exchange of ideas with like-minded others.

One of the first novels, Samuel Richardson’s Pamela, was composed entirely of letters by a daughter to her parents, the epistolary method giving the novel its sense of realism. In today’s digital world letters tend to be the generated by computer, written for business reasons and arrive in brown envelopes. A handwritten letter is a luxury.

A unique personal touch….

I initiated my letter-writing with much more humble ambitions – a desire to let James know that I was thinking of him and supporting him, albeit not in person. I can only imagine how much motivation it takes to knuckle down to work when you are remote learning. Fortunately, he is an incredibly self-motivated scholar and probably doesn’t need prompts, but I hoped that a letter would help him feel connected to the wider world and more specifically to the Longford Trust network.

Whatever the intention, the impact of a letter, however brief or mundane, cannot be overestimated. A letter is capable of generating a tangible feeling. It’s as if someone has extended their hand out and reached across a divide. It is akin to a person actually being in a room with you.

Letters are also powerful tools to convey kinship and thoughtfulness. The idea that someone has taken time out of his or her day  – everyone has other stuff to do – to sit down and write, find an envelope, look up the address, get a stamp and finally post it can really boost how someone feels and lift a mood. The words go way beyond what is actually written on the page bringing the writer’s personality and voice to life, similar to reading a novel where it’s possible to create a whole visual picture as you read.

What to talk about ….

Like everyone, I can find a blank piece of paper daunting. Have I got anything interesting to say? Can I express myself well enough? What should I talk about? What would James like to hear about? But I’ve decided it is better to not worry about these things and just write, unfettered by any worries of whether it is going to be good enough, long enough, interesting enough.

It almost doesn’t matter in the end. It’s the thought that counts and the sentiment it conveys. Having said that, James does write a very accomplished letter, so I do try hard to match his eloquence!

In the context of writing to James I am sometimes unsure if I am bound by any rules of what might be considered suitable topics of conversation. Are letters subject to censorship? Can I include press cuttings? But I am confident the team at the Longford Trust can answer any questions I might have.

PS Don’t forget…..

Before writing this blog, I asked the team if they had any advice. Jacob Dunne, who moderates the trust’s secure online platform for scholars and mentors (contact him at slack@longfordtrust.org to find out more), made the excellent point that obtaining stamps can be a problem for inmates. So from now I will include a stamp in any letter I write to James.

However, I am conscious that when I write I don’t expect a response. It is something done for its own sake. So I will always include a proviso that the stamp can be used for someone else.

 

 

If you are a scholar or mentor keeping in touch by letter we provide a confidential forwarding service through our PO Box address: Longford Trust, PO Box 64302, London, NW6 9JP. We recommend letters to scholars in prison include a stamped addressed envelope.