As part of my sentence, I had a thing called a Sexual Harm Prevention Order (SHPO) slapped on me. This lists things you cannot do, on pain of fine or imprisonment, and is judiciously applied to reflect the nature of your crimes. One of my terms was a weighty ‘No unsupervised contact of any kind with anybody under the age of 16 unless unavoidable in the course of daily life’, this despite me never having committed any form of contact or communication offence. Just to clarify; I had never touched any kid in the wrong way nor even been accused of it, and neither had I ever spoke to one inappropriately either in person or over cyber-space. I’d had fantasies, though, so I guess that meant I might. Let’s not get into debates over ‘thought crime’ or ‘future crime’, however, or whether you should be banned from banks if you’ve ever enjoyed a movie about one being robbed. The object of this exercise is to demonstrate how conscientiously I adhered to my ‘SHPO’ over six years of the fucking thing.

I should add, in fairness, that there was a sub-clause: ‘Unless with the consent of the parent or guardian who has knowledge of the offences.’ They have to say that on human rights grounds, as it was established by precedent when a bunch of convicted paedophiles (the newspaper’s word not mine) challenged it in the appeal court, so that they could win the right to see their own kid-relatives with a semblance of normality. Said newspaper waxed lyrical on how this was a grim day for the cause of child protection, obviously taking it as a given that the public would vehemently agree. Well, they needn’t have worried, because let me tell you it’s bullshit.

This is why: the clause is not worth the paper it is written on, no matter how reasonable it might sound - ‘with the consent of the parent’ - because the social services inevitably step in and do their stuff to prevent it (by way of advising said parent not to give consent) not to mention profoundly hassling even supervised contact. Anyway, parents who would allow the unsupervised contact with an offender they know about are few and far between, due to the rampant paranoia and stigma of it all. Even if they wanted to, they’re too scared to, because of what social services might do to their parenting rights. My own ex-wife, my children’s mother, fell mainly into the latter group but partly into the former. Total witch-hunting sham that pays lip-service to human rights.

So, my rant being over, allow me to reminisce on these years of being in the community yet not ‘of’ it, so to speak, and five of the many little human instances where I could have breached my conditions but didn’t.

Very early on, I took myself on a holiday (for sanity) along a picturesque thing called the Lowlands Way. One section took me through a park on the fringes of a town, the official route becoming a little ambiguous. A trio of under-16 boy locals came swooping along on bikes and, noting me with my rucksack, asked if I was walking the ‘Way’. At this point I was supposed to say a simple ‘no’, a simple ‘yes’, or maybe nothing at all, and merely walk on. Certainly, far be it from me to enter into a conversation, as that would be an outright breach. I had a massive urge to chat, though, however briefly, just to feel human; also, sadly, to use them as a kind of substitute for my own sons whom I was missing awfully.

They were good kids - the bikers (and my sons) - and they deserved a genial interaction from this walking stranger. They wanted to offer directions, and I imagined a conversation whereby they’d give them and I’d thank them, and then I’d sociably ask them about their bikes and the routes they liked to do on them. As I said, though, far be it from me; if such a thing had been witnessed and reported, there would sure-as-hell have been an inquiry. I’d have probably got off lightly, just that once, what with my offences being all against girls in any case (via indecent images), but it would have been logged and etched into the cumulative consideration of whether I could be discharged 5 years hence.

Another occasion, maybe as much as a year further on - who the hell knows, months merged into one another - I was strolling around a lovely little village. Outside a gift shop sat two lovely little girls. They had a table set up just outside, on which they were selling a few things themselves, kind of like their very own little market stall franchised out from the shop owners (parents I guess, but not necessarily). How cute. No, I mean that, in the sense that any kind adult would; and in the other sense, though, I suppose.

I wanted to go into that shop, genuinely, and I guess there was no law against that; not even for me. So I did, even though I imagine that witch at Probation would have ‘advised’ against it, so as to keep ‘myself’ safe. The point being, if I’d have been spotted talking to those girls by somebody who knew about me, there would have been all hell to pay. I suppose the idea was, in view of 8 to 10-year-old girls very much being in my thought-crime history as well as actual (images) crime, that such an interaction would alarm adults too, so my conditions were also meant to protect their sensitive feelings.

So, once again, far be it from me. I imagine any interaction would hypothetically have gone on the lines thus: they smile sweetly, clearly hoping I’ll buy something, so I engage them in pleasant small-talk as to how it’s going and what a nice idea they’re running there. Then I buy something, commenting how interesting or pretty it is and whom I might be buying it for, and they’d beam with satisfaction. A highlight of their day - a mini one at least - and a little sense of pride in what they’d achieved, which they could boast about to their mums. Good, solid humane interaction; but no.