I've got a bit of claustrophobia with gas masks. I wonder how those fellows acting as Batman can ever tolerate such costumes . . .

Everybody serving time has to go though this chemical shit. You're supposed to suit up, then walk into a room filled with some smelly and irritating gas, do funny stunts in it, then take off mask while they torture you by asking you to recite your name and identification number before they let you out gasping for air, eyes wetting uncontrollably with tears and face scarred by creepy-crawlies.

No wonder they say "We make grown men cry."

Wearing the suit is bad enough. It's damn bloody hot, made of extremely thick material that makes you sweat even if you are wearing singlet and shorts inside. The protective boots are not easy to put on or take off: the rubber will jam with your ordinary boots.

And the mask: the worst. The rubber stinks. Breathing is constrained, and I hate it every time somebody puts his hand over the covering of my canister and prevents air from going into the mask. Sure, fun, but horrifying with the thought being to breathe any air momentarily.

* * *

I put a plaster on my face to protect the wound which is still in the process of recovering. If I take off the mask and the smoke makes contact with the wound, woo-hoo! High man!

Thank goodness I am told that I am excused from taking off the mask.

We line up and go into the room. It is hazy with smoke, reminiscent of the columbarium at the temple I always go to, albeit worse because this time the smoke is all confined. Somehow I keep wishing I would have the power to turn on the ventilating system . . . I hold my breath to prevent breathing in the smoke, which I always do at the columbarium – suddenly I remember that I am behind a gas mask. For once I'm grateful for this piece of equipment.

One of the sergeants adds a few more pellets onto the burner in the centre of the room. More smoke fills the room.

Suddenly I feel a stinging sensation in my throat. I have a bit of difficulty breathing. Shit. The smoke has entered my mask! (Apparently this mask is pretty old, used by generations for the same kind of shit, so it tends to leak . . . as I find out from others later.)

We are made to do jumping jacks. I hold my breath: when doing such exercises I will definitely breathe in heavier than usual, and I do not wish to suck in all the smoke. I feel I'd die there.

I am shown out of the room – I am excused from taking off the mask. I have a piece of white tape tied to my epaulette that tells them so.

Honestly the effect on the guys is not as bad as we hear from the others: they would grab the fence like drug addicts during the early stages of rehabilitation and scream and cry like maniacs. It doesn't happen.

And boy, am I glad to get rid of the suit and mask . . . yay, I don't have to wear it again! J