We return to the daily regimen of Federal Prison Camp life; I arrived at Eglin, which is in the Florida Panhandle, a portion of the state that juts out into the Gulf of Mexico, and more like Alabama or Mississippi than the rest of the state, just before Thanksgiving, meaning mid-November. The weather in that area was soon to change to a cool, and then cold, state the likes of which I had not known since my days spent freezing during a winter in the Army at Fort Dix in the 1960s, and it was a physical shock. After all, I had by that time been living in a sub-tropical climate for an uninterrupted two decades. I'll take 40 degrees Celsius any day before zero, believe me. It's bad enough to have to adjust to the reality that you are going to be spending the next four years in a Federal correctional institution, but to have to endure cold weather makes it far more depressing. Here I am getting up every day just before dawn, and donning a out-of-fashion Air Force blue work uniform, to trudge down to a military-style mess hall for a bland breakfast, followed by an artificially-created work day where most of inmates must journey out to the far corners of the surrounding airbase to perform menial labour, in penitence for their white-collar or drug-trafficking transgressions. At least going to war was interesting; this place is terminally boring, and full of bored and stressed-out inmates who just want the experience to be over. Back to our story.

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