“PEEEE TEEEEEEEEE!”. The call echoes down the hall. It’s physical therapy time. I quickly change out of my personal clothes and into my prison-issue gear (black trackies and a polo shirt, neither of which fit me) and head out through the gate to the reception desk where the wardens sit. Prisoners from my hall and the adjacent hall are gathering for the gym session, which we can attend 5 times a week. I look around, slightly nervously, trying to find a familiar face. Two of the guys I’ve been hanging around with since I was moved to this wing are talking with some other guys, but I decide not to join them. Five days in and I still feel very much like the “new guy”.

We are frisked, one by one, and led down the metal staircase, then along the cold corridor to the gym. I am so happy to see three of my old buddies from the Remand Hall, already set up on the exercise bikes. We all beam from ear to ear and do “high-fives” laughing and joking. I am surprised at how over-joyed I am to see them!

We catch up with all the latest news from our respective halls and I take the opportunity to rant about how terrible my new co-pilot is. During the hour long gym session we only spend about half of it doing any exercise. The rest of the time we talk, ten to the dozen, about everything that has been building up inside us. For me it’s mostly about the horrors of attempting to live with my new cell-mate. It feels like a huge release of emotions – anger, frustration, fear, happiness, hope. I am filled with an overwhelming sense of kinship and renewed strength.