It’s been on my shelf for years now — a solid little piece of brass, heavy in the hand, its edges softened by time and use. The only clues it offers are two neat engravings: “Ausinel” and “Dee Why.” That’s a suburb on Sydney’s northern beaches, but beyond that, the trail grows cold.
It doesn’t quite fit any category. Too intricate to be a plumbing fitting, too sturdy to be decorative. The metalwork suggests utility — something meant to be handled, tightened, or fastened — yet its shape resists easy identification.
I’ve shown it to collectors, tinkerers, and engineers. Each has their theory: a component from a marine instrument, a part of an old electrical insulator, perhaps even a piece of a local manufacturer’s short-lived experiment. Every guess feels possible, yet none quite click into place.
There’s something oddly satisfying about the mystery. The way it resists being solved gives it personality — a stubborn reminder of how much quiet history sits in forgotten workshops and sheds.
Maybe one day someone from Dee Why will recognize it instantly, remembering the small factory that once stamped its name into brass. Until then, it remains what I like best: an object that keeps its story to itself.
