A thread of PG Wodehouse gems (H/T: Dutta paterfamilias)

Uncle Tom looked like a pterodactyl with a secret sorrow

She looked like a tomato struggling for self-expression.

The terrifying Honoria Glossop has a laugh like a squadron of cavalry charging over a
tin bridge.
Jeeves, the gentleman’s personal gentleman, coughs softly, like a very old sheep clearing its throat on a distant mountain-top.
He groaned slightly and winced, like Prometheus watching his vulture dropping in for
lunch.

The butler was looking nervous, like Macbeth interviewing Lady Macbeth after one of
her visits to the spare room

I turned him down like a bedspread
A soul as grey as a stevedore’s undervest
Her face was shining like the seat of a bus driver’s trousers
A slow pleasant voice, like clotted cream made audible
Like so many substantial citizens from America, he had married young and kept on
marrying, springing from blonde to blonde, like the chamois of the Alps leaping from
crag to crag.
Unlike the male codfish which, suddenly finding itself the parent of three million five hundred thousand little codfish, cheerfully
resolve to love them all, the British aristocracy is apt to look with a somewhat jaundiced
eye on its younger sons
A dedication for a book – to my daughter Leonara, without whose never-failing
sympathy and encouragement this book would have been finished in half the time.
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