Tom: Aren’t you scared you’ll kill yourself if you crash?
Burt Munro: No… You live more in five minutes on a bike like this going flat out than some people live in a lifetime.
“The World’s Fastest Indian”
Bric-à-brac or bric-a-brac (origin French), first used in the Victorian era, refers to lesser objets d’art forming collections of curios, such as elaborately decorated teacups and small vases, compositions of feathers or wax flowers under glass domes, decorated eggshells, porcelain figurines, painted miniatures or photographs in stand-up frames, and so on.
In middle-class homes bric-à-brac was used as ornament on mantelpieces, tables, and shelves, or was displayed in curio cabinets: sometimes these cabinets have glass doors to display the items within while protecting them from dust. Today, “bric-à-brac” refers to a selection of items of modest value, often sold in street markets and charity shops, and may be more commonly known in colloquial English as “knick knacks.”
The fair wind failed. The wind dropped. Winds were unfavourable
straightaway. The favourable wind dropped and they were beset by
storms so that they made little progress. Then the wind dropped and
they were beset by winds from the north and fog; for many days they
did not know where they were sailing. The fair wind failed and they
wholly lost their reckoning. They did not know from what direction.
Driven here and there. The fog was so dense that they lost all sense
of direction and lost their course at sea. There was much fog and the
winds were light and unfavourable. They drifted far and wide on the
high sea. Most of those on board completely lost their reckoning.
The crew had no idea in which direction they were steering. A thick
fog which did not lift for days. The ship was driven off course to
land. They were tossed about at sea for a long time and failed to
reach their destination. We embarked and sailed but a fog so thick
covered us that we could scarcely see the prow of the
by Caroline Bergvall
I write a photographic journal every day. My thoughts are thrown at You between the beach and the crowded Union Street. I love you for every step I take with You and for each day. For putting my wings together with Yours in our small bedroom. For the scent of scrambled eggs and Your little steps on the wooden floor in the morning.
I love you because You are.
I love You and We are.