During a recent phone call from HMP Bronzefield, conversation turned to types of roof covering. It was an unlikely tangent meant to be bring forth thoughts of another world.
My friend asked questions about the surroundings rooftops I could you see from the window of my second-floor flat – what they were made of and how they were put together. “Is it slate? Is it shingle?” I felt embarrassed that I had to look up each example online.
Looking closely, for what was probably the first time, I found the roof slabs to be unsightly tomb coverings: thick grey concrete slabs speckled with moss and bird droppings, each with a weight to keep in the dead.
Despite appearances, I suspected they were not entirely fit for purpose. Looking up to consider my own roof from within, I saw a large brown stain left by a persistent leak that my landlord has ‘fixed’ at least twice.
Our conversation soon turned from the worlds in which we live to a more hopeful kind of speculation: is it still possible to imagine another world where knowledge of materials is more commonplace, with their uses more consciously foregrounding our social relations? What if you knew what your roof was made of, and how it was put together, and who to call on to help you fix it? What if the labour of home-making was not abstracted within the purview of property managers, but became a more consciously social and communal endeavour once more?
Inspecting these lofty notions of home, it was impossible not to think about the differences between our current situations: the different dwellings we resided in, or were confined within; the connections between imprisonment and homelessness; the precarious of home in general.
Returning to what was more immediate, I began describing the various ornaments and keepsakes around me that constituted my mobile sense of home: miniature ceramics without function; handsome stones gathered from various beaches; peculiar bits of debris rescued from rivers and woodland; postcards from art museums in different countries; Biro sketches drawn by my partner; a teddy bear wearing a recently handknitted jumper. I imagined the letters, drawings, books, and reminders of outside life that might populate my friend’s prison cell in turn.
Each object carries a story and a memory; each is the product of time, skill, craft, attention, and care; most were made or gifted by someone we knew. “Imagine you felt that way towards your whole house and not just the bric-a-brac inside it”, my friend added.