My dear Tony, (she writes with a pink gel pen), what a providence it was that you found me on the Internet. Writing to you has been a real tonic during my stay. I’m not one to complain, but the company in here is not of the highest calibre. It’s so nice to be able to communicate with someone as intelligent and astute as you (she inserts a smiley face – it’s the hip thing to do, these days).
I am glad you have taken my advice to divorce Deborah. You deserve much better. If I weren’t so indisposed, I’d give her a piece of my mind. And remember, kiddies need a mother: a custody battle would be expensive and time-consuming. You’re better off starting a-fresh.
Did I say thank you for the cheque? Well, thank you again. It’s very difficult sorting mother out from in here. You are my knight in shining armour. (Deborah is a fool). Another £200 should see the end of it.
She signs off, eternally grateful, Your Margaret and colours in the tiny love heart. She places the letter and envelope aside for collection and inspection.
Margaret Rutherby opens a small ledger, runs her finger down the index to find the entries that refer to Tony Smith (there are three Tonys on her books, at the moment). She writes £550 in the ‘running total’ column.
They’ll not stop me writing, she thinks, and flips open the Bond stationary pad to a new page. She writes her name and prisoner ID in the top right hand corner and begins,
My dear John…