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We sit in a group of 8 twice a day for half an hour. He makes us sing old pop songs from the 80¿s that my parents still listen to. The classics, the cranberries, Phil Collins, and a lot of David Bowie. He doesn¿t sing, he performs. He holds one of those fake microphones in his hand as he mouths the words along like he¿s the one singing instead of us. He¿s quite theatrical in our sessions, usually dressed up in old pant suits or leotards with fluorescent yellow leg warmers. He likes to dance, in this little stage that is in the middle of our arranged chairs. And when the song is over we have to clap, loud, very loud for several minutes. We are his puppets, his entourage, his groupies, and he is our self-proclaimed rock star.
We learnt to speak through the pipes connecting our rooms, and through lip reading to each other across from his performance. Lena, Wren, Nove, Adeline. We are 4, there used to be 7.
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