Jailers’ keys were apparently filled with gun powder to create a primitive gun that could be detonated if there was any trouble when opening a cell door.
Of course, if you pulled the trigger for any reason, whilst the key was in the lock, any device like this would explode in your hand with ragged, stumpy consequences. On the whole, I'd prefer not to be a jailer, thank you.
Well, given that choice, being the guy with the keys beats being the one without, any day.
I have never been able to understand how criminals see prison as an acceptable hazard of their lifestyle choices.
Mind you, the kind of prison bankers and politicians get sent to doesn't always sound too bad. Somewhere to catch up on your reading, study a new subject, write a novel... On reflection though, it still gives me the shivers. At the age of eight, or maybe just nine, I was incarcerated in Wharfedale Children's Hospital. We kids, -from babies up to age sixteen, called it "Stalag Luft III", after the german p.o.w. camp in the great escape. It was, I suppose, a bit like a boarding school run by nurses. In some cases, rather vicious ones. You were allowed two visitors, for two hours on saturday and sunday afternoons. At those times the guards were all smiles and politeness. As soon as parents were gone, they'd reassert themselves. We had no posessions, no self determination whatsoever. I recall, one day I knocked over a glass of water at bedtime. I was told to mop it up with my pyjama top. Then I was told to put the top back on, but I couldn't go to bed, because I was wet. Instead, I was told to go stand outside. Under the light outside the front door. Eventually, another nurse, passing by, took me back in, and we heard raised but muffled voices in the nurses kitchen.
The following day I escaped. I got almost a mile away, before an off-duty nurse recognised me. Well, I had no disguise, no provisions, no money, and no idea of how to get home. Two weeks of punishments. And a caning. I was there for three years.
So I'm still a bit phobic on all forms of incarceration.
The early part of my career was spent working in children's psychiatric wards. Horrible places. I have always felt a kinship with the victim and it was difficult to be perceived to be on the side of the oppressor.
Of course, if you pulled the trigger for any reason, whilst the key was in the lock, any device like this would explode in your hand with ragged, stumpy consequences.
ReplyDeleteOn the whole, I'd prefer not to be a jailer, thank you.
If I had to choose I think I'd prefer being a jailer to being jailed but it is a tough choice and one I hope I never have to make.
ReplyDeleteWell, given that choice, being the guy with the keys beats being the one without, any day.
ReplyDeleteI have never been able to understand how criminals see prison as an acceptable hazard of their lifestyle choices.
Mind you, the kind of prison bankers and politicians get sent to doesn't always sound too bad. Somewhere to catch up on your reading, study a new subject, write a novel...
On reflection though, it still gives me the shivers. At the age of eight, or maybe just nine, I was incarcerated in Wharfedale Children's Hospital. We kids, -from babies up to age sixteen, called it "Stalag Luft III", after the german p.o.w. camp in the great escape. It was, I suppose, a bit like a boarding school run by nurses. In some cases, rather vicious ones.
You were allowed two visitors, for two hours on saturday and sunday afternoons. At those times the guards were all smiles and politeness. As soon as parents were gone, they'd reassert themselves. We had no posessions, no self determination whatsoever.
I recall, one day I knocked over a glass of water at bedtime. I was told to mop it up with my pyjama top. Then I was told to put the top back on, but I couldn't go to bed, because I was wet.
Instead, I was told to go stand outside. Under the light outside the front door.
Eventually, another nurse, passing by, took me back in, and we heard raised but muffled voices in the nurses kitchen.
The following day I escaped. I got almost a mile away, before an off-duty nurse recognised me. Well, I had no disguise, no provisions, no money, and no idea of how to get home.
Two weeks of punishments. And a caning.
I was there for three years.
So I'm still a bit phobic on all forms of incarceration.
The early part of my career was spent working in children's psychiatric wards. Horrible places. I have always felt a kinship with the victim and it was difficult to be perceived to be on the side of the oppressor.
ReplyDelete