[1] A pickpocket needs targets who are relaxed and preoccupied. The perfect setting is a clothing store. Customers bustle among the racks, completely distracted as they hold up items. The presence of a uniformed security guard is even better. False reassurance makes a pickpocket's job much simpler.

[2] The subway also provides rich pickings for snatchers. Be particularly wary when the doors open. Everyone is concentrating on squeezing on, and it's easy to sucker someone. Women should check that their bags are closed and held in front of them or under their arms. Men should keep a hand on their wallets.

[3] Sometimes when I'd had a day of easy pickings and was getting a bit bored, I'd set challenges for myself. Several years ago I was in a department store. I'd already made over a grand and knew I should be going home. Then I saw an expensively dressed lady carrying a handbag on her left shoulder. The leather was new, but I decided to go for it.

[4] I indicated to my sister to get into position. I could tell that she didn't want to do it, but the dipper always has the final say. I went in.

[5] It's hard to describe what those few seconds feel like. I'm aware of every movement in my body as the adrenaline rushes. All I can see is the bag. The excitement, combined with my fear, is almost unbearable.

[6] My right hand is coming up under my left arm. The woman is running her hands through silk scarfs.

[7] As I pop the stud on the handbag, I dampen the click with my thumb, but it's always louder on new bags. My hand freezes halfway up the inch gap that has opened under the flap. There is no reaction. I'm now pinching the zipper pull between my index fingers. The owner is engrossed in feeling the silk.

[8] Then the climax of every dip, when the same two fingers first make contact with the weight of the wallet. All good pickpockets strengthen their two working fingers by putting elastic bands around them and opening them like a crab's claws. You can get them strong enough to lift a brick.

[9] With a roll of the wrist to clear the wallet of any obstacles, I east it out. But the stiffness of the new leather makes it snag under the zipper. It's slipping through my fingers.

[10] The wallet hits the bottom of the bag, and the woman screams. My sister has already melted away. I turn to run, but store detectives and a guard have closed all escape routes. I am already calculating my sentence. I reckon two to three years.

[11] Since I've already spent nearly half of my adult life in prison, you'd think I'd be prepared for anything a court could throw at me. But when I heard the judge say seven years, my legs buckled. My life of crime was over.

[12] I can never make amends for my crimes, but by writing this I can help others keep their possessions.