Imagine this poem by Longfellow spoken in a High Street London English accent, slowly.

“Momma, what does ‘horrid’ mean?”

There was a little girl,

            Who had a little curl,

Right in the middle of her forehead.

            When she was good,

            She was very good indeed,

But when she was bad she was . . . . . horrid.

Introducing my granddaughter, Eadie Eichholz, a Southern girl of considerable ability from Savannah, Georgia who it is a blessing to know and be related to and is never, ever horrid.