Erwin James is a freelance writer, a columnist for the Guardian, and author of 'A Life Inside' and 'The Home Stretch'.

Long days are the norm in prison. In local prisons, where prisoners are kept on 23 hour 'bang-up', the days are even longer, especially at Christmas. It was in such a place with such a regime that I spent the first of my 20 Christmases, inside. The wing had been oddly quite for most of the day before. The usually constant shouting out of cell windows was sporadic and noticeably less aggressive – no warnings, no threats and hardly any abuse. Even the prison officers appeared a tad courteous when they were opening cell doors for 'slop-out' (the emptying of toilet buckets) and the collection of meals and water.

The final unlock was at three-thirty in the afternoon. It was a cold tea – sandwiches, an orange and an apple, a bag of ready salted crisps and a bun, all to be washed down with a small carton of orange juice. The fruit and the juice were real treats. As we mingled in the queue and made our way back along the gantries to our cells, all dressed identically in scuffed and faded denims and blue and white striped shirts, there was an almost tangible sense that hostilities had ceased. It was as if a silent voice had called for a truce and everybody had listened. As I stepped back into my cell for the last time that day I was sure I heard at least two exchanges of "Merry Christmas" – and the manner in which our landing officer, Mr Barker, closed my cell door was almost apologetic. "See you tomorrow," he said gently.
 
I ate the sandwiches and the orange and saved the apple, the bun and half of the carton of orange for later. By six-thirty out of window conversations has dwindled to barely a whisper. I listened to the news on my small transistor radio and finished off the food I had saved. Unable to face the long evening thinking about my situation, I decided to make my bed up and get under the blankets. I was asleep long before that Christmas Eve was over.

But then, sometime in the early hours I was awakened by sounds from above. Footsteps, keys, whispers – and then a cell door being closed ever so softly. I lay for a short while wondering about it before slipping off back into sleep. In the morning I was up a good hour before the door was unlocked. I had done my exercises and had a wash in the freezing water that I had saved in my plastic basin from the day before. The doors opened and down to the servery for breakfast we snaked. Again the atmosphere was disarming. Some faces smiled, some did there best to avoid having to acknowledge friendly nods. A joker shouted "Happy Christmas campers!" – and a burst of laughter echoed around the wing.

But there were many whose behaviour was uncertain. They shuffled and looked distant. Somebody wished me a Merry Christmas and I wished it back – but all we had in common was that none of us wanted to be there. A small consolation was that there were cornflakes on the menu instead of the usual glutinous porridge. (In those days prisoners were served cereals just once a year on Christmas morning.) It helped put the queue in good spirits – until the news began to spread. It was shocking and concerned the sounds I had heard as I lay in my bed in the early hours the night before. The man in the cell above mine had hanged himself.
 
Suddenly the breakfast queue was silent. Nobody knew how to react. Emotions stayed guarded. We were all strangers, defensive and fearful. My insides churned. I never knew the man, never saw him as far as I was aware. Yet he had sat and weaved torn strips of bed sheet together just a few feet above me, before wrapping one end around his neck and attaching the other end to the bars of his cell window. They said he had stood on his chair to reach the bars – and then kicked it away. It was a distressing image.
 
Then the joker broke the silence. "I’ll have his cornflakes!" A distinct air of embarrassment hung in the laughter that followed. The dead man had worked as a landing cleaner, which meant he was out of his cell for several hours each day. It was a sought after job. "I’ll have his mop and bucket!" somebody else shouted, followed by more embarrassed laughter. Back in my cell the cornflakes lost their appeal.
 
That incident taught me how fragile we all were in those places. Despite the bravado and machismo out on the landings, inside we were all guarding our fears in our own way and some of us were less successful than most. I could never say that I never had a happy Christmas in prison, I did. So many people go out of their way at this time of year to bring cheer into our jails. Parties get organised by prisoners and staff for the elderly and other vulnerable groups in their outside community. Education departments run extra courses and programmes to lighten the atmosphere. The same thing happens in the gym and the prison chapel and the kitchens too do their best to bring a flavour of Christmas to the wings. Nobody wants to be in prison and some struggle with it even more at Christmas when the missing of families and friends is most acute. I am sure that few would wish for sympathy – my guess is that most would just hope for peace.