On the right hand, as you enter the port, there is an elegant fanal, or lighthouse, kept in good repair: but in all the charts of this coast which I have seen, this lanthorn is laid down to the westward of the harbour; […]

The window is handed in [to a wicker carriage]. Her feet are wound around with comforters against a draft... Her ample bag of knitting is safe aboard... Proot! The donkey starts.

Ever since he started going to the rock club, he's been given the label waster.

I know that in some quarters I am regarded as a kind of wet blanket, a Henny Penny predicting doom and gloom.