I've had a last-minute go with these. Goodness knows if they're what she wants.
She distributed praise with happy generosity, like raindrops on the streets of Warrington.
Her manner became so suddenly grim it was as though she had injected all of Aberdeen directly into a vein.
The cat’s eyes were as malevolent as those of a High churchman who has just caught sight of a woman bishop.
The tarmac was grey, as though someone had inadvertently mixed whitest snow with darkest midnight, and had carelessly unloosed the result upon the unsuspecting roadway.
The Irish pub was so crowded, it was as though the entire attendance at the Pope’s visit had been squeezed into one booze-scented confessional booth.
Her smile was like a Derridean paradox, at once intriguingly obscure yet paradigmatically unconvincing.
The dinner-table conversation was as irritating as a discussion between Michael Winner, Lembit Opik and Jeremy Clarkson on what used once to be a serious current affairs programme.
My shirt was as wet as though it had absorbed an entire ocean polluted by a slick of 24,000 metric tonnes of essence of Fotherington-Thomas.
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