SURVIVING CORONATION STREET: A CORONAVIRUS SURVIVOR’S MEMOIR BY BRIGITTE POIRSON

Evening. Night. Morning. Noon. Afternoon. When dusk slowly descended upon the dumb landscape, I paced the room and addressed the door loudly. My diatribe boomeranged against the walls back into my Eustachian tubes – gracious enough to confirm they were still operational – that transmitted the message to my brain. Though pretty much entangled, my neurons agreed to take the cue and bounced an answer back to my mouth. We started a discussion from the argument reverberated by the walls. Sheets of paper finally settled the score. (Surviving Coronation Street: pg 16)