As Britain is gripped by a prison crisis, The Telegraph publishes messages from an inmate in a Category B prison – the second level of security – to discover what life is really like inside. Recently, the Independent Monitoring Board (IMB) found the prison to be overcrowded and understaffed, with self-harm and drug use taking place.

The prisoner, a British professional and overseas entrepreneur, is in custody awaiting trial on charges of non-violent offenses which he denies. To protect his identity, he is not named. Other names and nicknames were also changed.

Some prison officers are little servants and deserve to work. Because many of the rules in prison are difficult to understand from a rational point of view, I judge them by the extent to which they allow themselves to be guided by their own decency and common sense. There is a ridiculous rule that we have to wear long sweat pants when we go out for exercise in the morning. It’s especially absurd because we’re allowed to leave in shorts if we go to the gym.

Nine times out of ten the officers let me out in my shorts – usually they know I’m using the exercise yard for, well exercise (I’m in the minority on this). But every now and then the governor sends out a notice asking the prisoners to wear long trousers until they reach the yard. Whenever this happens, an anxiety creeps in at the “rub” in the morning (unfortunately, not a massage, but a hand search done before you’re allowed to leave), and we’re sent back to put on pants – crap, in terms of security, because pants give you much more room than shorts to hide drugs or weapons. Then, once we’re out in the yard, some officers will pat you down if you take your top off to go bare-chested, even on a sunny day (mind you, we see very little direct sunlight). Others recognize that half an hour is your daily chance to feel the fresh air and natural light on your skin.

I respect the officers prepared to turn a blind eye. In an arena, this is essential to my well-being: I receive anti-depressant medication with a strong sedative effect every day around 4:00 p.m. The rules are clear: all medicines must be taken in view of the pharmacy officer at the medicine hatch. I take the medicine, holding it under my tongue, swallow the disposable plastic cup of water, then once around the corner, spit it back into the cup to take later around nine in the evening, so I’m asleep by ten. If I didn’t do that, I’d fall asleep at six or seven and again at three, which would wreak havoc not only on my rhythm of life, but on my friend’s as well. The pharmacist, I’m sure, knows what he’s doing; he’s a very efficient guy, understood. He must have realized I’m not a junkie and I don’t sell my drugs (some prisoners do) so he let her pass. Such small, grand gestures make life bearable.

But officers are under pressure. What you see are elements of chaos mixing in to disrupt the order in which a prison should run, well stocked and not overflowing to the gills with new prisoners. The exercise yards are dirty as the officers do not seem willing or available to provide daily cleanings. Changing the kit, which is supposed to be done mainly by the prisoners who distribute clean sheets, towels, T-shirts and so on once a week, hardly ever happens. We are often battered (confined to our cells) for longer periods than is physically or psychologically healthy. The usual reason is lack of staff. A giveaway is how often you see PEOS (Physical Education Officers, all also qualified prison officers) covering regular officers. From their presence on the wing you can deduce that the hall is closed.

Drugs keep flooding in: prisons are so remarkably porous now that you can order a drone delivery. There simply aren’t enough officers to rotate (search) enough cells or enough countermeasures to secure the air perimeter. Indeed, I recently met a prisoner in the waiting area for the video link, on remand for “conspiracy to supply HMP”. And one wonders—must wonder—if some of the stuff coming in can do that, as some officers turn a blind eye for less than generous reasons.