Before standing up to address Finch, the court clerk reached into the large box of tissues she brought with her and gave a big blow. Obviously the cold February snap was playing havoc with her delicate sinuses. Perhaps Finch, who was on his feet was glad not to be out there. In an ancient ritual, whose need seemed spurious, she then addressed him, 'Are you the defendant, Anthony Ernest Finch?' 'I am' he replied. 'You may be seated.'

For the first time I had heard him talk. There was something of a Lowestoft accent still there, the sound rising like a bull quietly baying. For a man who had spent days and perhaps weeks at large not speaking to anyone, he seemed singularly assured. The police told me that once arrested, he was so happy to talk for hours about all his exploits. He seemed almost relieved to be in company and enjoyed being the focus of attention. He was always so matter of fact, and there seemed no intention to brag. He would never admit to a beak-in he hadn't done.

Then the clerk announced' 'All rise!' The same judge who had dealt with the alleged office-girl fraudster, returned to the platform from his private entrance. I began humming to myself the grand entry of the judge in Trial by Jury, 'All hail great judge, to thee we sing our praise.' Once he was seated, we were all allowed to sit again.

There followed a brief discussion between the judge and the clerk about Finch representing himself. The judge then addressed Finch and asked him to confirm that he wished to defend himself, which he said in quite emphatic terms he did. (To his credit and great deal of saving to the public purse, Finch saw these people as a total waste of time.) Then Counsel for the Prosecution picked up one of the many lever-arch files he would be using that day in the six cases scheduled for hearing, and outlined the long litany of Finch's crimes. This was his twentieth 'court appearance' – the true number was nearer sixty if you took in magistrate court hearings, pre-trial reviews, trials, and sentencing. In the case before the Court, the total value of goods he had stolen from his 21 admitted offences came to £550. This averaged a mere £25 per break-in. Nothing was said about the damage to boats, which we have found averages something like £500 each, nor the pain and distress it caused to the victims. (I once sold a boat for an elderly couple because of the wife's fear of returning to it after Finch's visit. A regular habit of his was to stay on board and sleep off the effects of his drinking, if he thought he was safe until the next night – and whilst there, to make full use of the facilities. Amongst his more bizarre antics was to do the washing up afterwards, leaving it to drip dry.)

I was waiting for the Prosecution to come to the big bit, when he would call for the maximum sentence to get rid of this menace to society for as long as possible. But somehow it just did not happen. Instead he went on to the pre-sentence report, which he described as 'a very good report'. Finch, it read, was full of remorse for all he had done, drink was his undoing and he had agreed to go on an alcohol rehabilitation course, and he had been a model prisoner whilst on remand – all of which he had said and promised and done many times before. I had thought it the responsibility of the Counsel for the Defence to 'restore burglars to their friends and their relations' – but not the role of the Prosecution. No wonder Finch did not bother with a defence.

Now it was time for the Defence. Finch was on his feet. At last some real drama, such as you see on afternoon television, I thought. But again I was to be disappointed. Finch said that all he wanted to say was in the letter he had written to the judge. This was passed by the clerk to the judge, who taking hold of it, said he had already read it. Then, perhaps in deference to the Defence, he flicked through it again – pages of small light blue letter writing paper, with a large immature joined-up handwriting in ballpoint ink. I could almost read the words from the back of the court. Perhaps remorse figured prominently in it. But what was written in it, I, his victim and the only member of the public besides the reporter from the Oxford Examiner, were not allowed to know.

The judge then addressed Finch saying in a tone which almost suggested regret, that he had no choice but to give him a custodial sentence. But before doing that he wanted to know how much of Finch's last sentence he still had to serve for his re-offending whilst on parole, and how much time he had already spent in jail on remand. Neither the clerk nor the Prosecution seemed to have that answer to hand. So the judge said he would retire from Court, whilst this was established. 'All stand', shouted the clerk, and we all did, as the judge made his private exit.

Like a concert conductor between curtain calls, I wondered what the judge would do whilst off stage, likely as he could be needed back at any time. Meanwhile the clerk and Prosecution began their deliberations in earnest, whilst the rest of us wondered quite what to do next.

Suddenly Finch's eye met mine – we were only yards away. Then he pointed to the Braunston Marina logo on my jersey, and made signs as if to say, 'Are you from Braunston Marina?' I gave him the thumbs up, and he gave me a nod and half a smile. His Alpha Security guard seemed not the slightest bit interested, indeed he appeared to be starting to nod off. For a moment I thought of speaking to Finch, and he seemed to wish to do the same – like brothers in arms meeting during a truce in battle, before rejoining hostilities. But I hesitated thinking I might find myself in contempt of court. Then just at that moment the clerk and the Prosecution came walking down to see Finch.

They told him what they made it, which he immediately said was incorrect. He knew to the day when he was arrested and released, and what he had done and what he still had to do. After double-checking they agreed with him, and in an absurd moment it was smiles all round, as the defendant determined his sentence.

It was 'All stand' again, and the judge in his splendid wig and fine crimson robes, returned to his seat. 'The defendant will remain standing!' shouted the clerk. Finch stood and looked at the judge, with a face that betrayed no emotion – he had been there so often before and knew the drill. 'Be 'umble, Uriah!'

The judge went through it all again, about his good behaviour on remand, his true remorse and his desire to mend his ways. And most importantly his agreement to undertake an alcoholic-rehabilitation course whilst in jail. What struck the judge most was that only £550 had been stolen in total during his twenty one burglaries. (Perhaps his mind was going back to the earlier case of the alleged office-girl fraudster who had scooped £10,000 in her first hit, or the millions of pounds in drug money involved in Operation Lambretta. Maybe he had a point.) Nevertheless he had to pass a custodial sentence of one year, to which would be added the eight months remission from his previous imprisonment. Finch then no doubt worked out at lightening speed the exact day in November when he would be released. At best we would have nine months of peace before he would be at it again.

I had hoped at least for a dramatic 'Take him down!' from the judge to the Alpha Security guard. But there was nothing of the sort, not even a message of sympathy from the judge to Finch's victims. Once 'All stand' and the judge had left, it all seemed to end so informally, like people wandering out of a meeting. Finch chatted amiably to his security guard – who by this time seemed to have properly woken up – and they made their way in their own time to the door down to the cells.

The reporter from the Oxford Examiner had in the meantime turned to me and asked me why I was there, and for a comment on the outcome. I replied by saying I wondered which planet the judge lived on, as it was certainly not the real world. No account had been taken of Finch's victims nor the enormous amount of police time wasted in pursuing him. What had happened to 'three strikes and you're out' and the tough treatment for serial criminals? Finch would be out in November and re-offending within days. We would be going through it all over again, because the Law would not lock away this menace to society, and give us protection from him.

As I spoke, I felt surprised at how fluently I had replied. Then I had a feeling of déjà vu. I had made exactly the same comment to the press about the Northampton judge, when Finch had been sentenced less than two years before. For how long did this Gilbert and Sullivan court-operetta – where the punishment did not fit the crime – need to go on?

She began texting her piece to catch the afternoon edition, and we were now the only ones left in the courtroom. What had happened to the third listing for the morning's hearing was not made clear. The row of black lever arch files stood ready on his table for the prosecution's afternoon session – he was having a busy day – but otherwise the Court was adjourned for luncheon.