In my final 2 years of Catechism class, I decided that enough was enough. I began to apply my adolescent mind to search for any and every reason to worm out of Sunday school. I think that my class attendance was probably the worst. Anyway, I wouldn't know if there was anyone else whose record was more dismal than mine, since I was hardly present often enough to make that observation.

The Canossian sister in charge of Catechism class (I believe her name was Sr. Maria) hauled me up one day, and vowed to "keep me back" for an extra year if my sporadic attendance did not improve. Cowed by her threat, I decided to turn up just often enough to please the powers-that-be.

In 1983, the parish priests found me (and a hundred other kids) "worthy" and "ready" to receive the Sacrament of Confirmation, which was supposed to be the rite to initiate us as "soldiers of Christ" (I supposed it's kinda like a Catholic Bar-Mitzvah).

I chose the mellifluous and rather appropriate name of "Christopher" (Christ-bearer) as my Confirmation name. However, I selected it, not because it reflected my zeal for Christ (of which I had none), but simply because it sounded cool. At the time, the concept of fighting for Jesus and extending His Kingdom was totally alien to me.

So, on the "big day", I was duly bundled up in my white shirt and white trousers, and confirmed by His Grace, the Archbishop Gregory Yong, on a date which has completely eluded my memory. In fact, the only detail which really stuck was this: I remember that my pants were rather tight and (I suspect) a little translucent.

Anyway, it was the end of the ordeal. Formal and mandatory religious lessons being over, I promptly dropped out of the church scene.