Corallian Kimmeridge - fancy name, fancy dame! - twenty-three and confident with it, sashays into the cocktail lounge with that wilful bold elegance of her Southern clan; cornbrash purty, to coin a phrase. The hairstyle is undoubtedly something elevated: a permian tour-de-force, sustained aloft by indomitable will-power… plus a little coiffeuse’s artifice. This lady’s detractors (in her glossary of dismissals, ‘bahstuds’, ‘beaches’ and ‘lias’, all) regard the breathtaking awe she engenders as shallow, ersatz… ‘Oo-lite’, I’ve heard it cynically termed; jibers also (distantly) allege ‘glamawkishness’ and ‘pseudazzle’. Hey, those who have it, flaunt it; those who don’t, mock - powerlessly jealous. Any rare time those little people do manage briefly to bug her, she with one glance or apt rejoinder targets lightning into their midst, electrifyingly spot-on; cauterising criticism, turning the social anthill into (I’ll coin another) an ampthill. Zappo!
[My own 'Corallian Kimmeridge' was conceived and submitted as an entry before I read Roger's entry above. I guess those two words just evoke names!]
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