Here convicted shoplifter Mark Keating tells of his years of crime, his many prison sentences and how he feels the penal system has failed him.

I was born and bred in Brighton. One day recently when my girlfriend came home from the shops, she told me that there was a piece about me in the local paper, The Argus.

I went out immediately to buy a copy and sat down on a step outside to read the article about myself, as the sun beat down hot on my head.

"Shoplifter Stole Iron," grabbed my attention on page seven. I knew it was me.

A sadness came over me giving me goose pimples, as I read the details about my appearance the day before at the magistrates court in Edward Street.

I hadn't spoken to my mother and I was more than a little worried that she would be upset and angry with me, as I had told the police that I stole the iron for a mother's day present because I was penniless.

The article told me that I had spent more than 12 years of my life in a prison cell.

Well, you can add on to that a total of 15 months, plus the two weeks I had just spent in Lewes Prison, which never accounted for anything because I had received non-custodial sentences after being on remand in custody.

So there is no record of that time served.

It went on to say that I had a record of 58 previous convictions, including 38 for theft.

The reason for my appalling record is that I got hooked on drugs at the age of 15.

I've spent my 16th, 18th and 21st birthdays in prison.

For some reason, the powers that be thought that incarceration was a cure for drug addiction.

I could never work that out.

All my life I've been trying to explain this to any one who would listen.

I am living proof that it doesn't work like that because I have spent 14 out of the last 20 years in prison, an addict when I went in and an addict when, X amount of years later, a smiling prison officer kindly opens the gate and sets me free with a fond farewell and the ritualistic "Bring a friend next time, Mark".

I was born and raised on Brighton beach.

I was cool until the drugs got a grip.

The change in my persona had the same effect as lobbing a hand grenade through the window and into my mother's living room.

In other words, I had begun to tear my life apart and anyone who came within arms' reach got caught up in the maelstrom of my chaotic life.

Somehow I am still standing.

Well, sitting actually, down at Peter Pan's Playground, near the Banjo groyne, as I write this on a gloriously sunny day. This beach was my playground. I remember being so small I could dive and swim in the paddling pool, which is all of a foot deep.

And through my early teens diving off the Banjo to impress the girls.

I love this place, my home. Brighton beach.

This is my beach. It cost me two weeks' income support, £100, to walk out of court and I don't have a penny on me, but here on my beach I am fine.

I don't have to go on about the pitfalls of drug addiction, surely not nowadays, or the horror of long term imprisonment.

I can only hope that I will see a change in a system that only prolongs pain and suffering for all those caught up in the vicious circle, victims and offenders alike and innocent relatives who see loved ones falling apart before their eyes.

I think I've cracked it this time. These days a fond look and a gentle touch are more valuable than gold.

I wish there were houses of hope instead of houses of correction.

Mark Keating received no payment for this article.