Yesterday, waiting at Beauty Point while Theo had his regular Thursday drum lesson,  I started reading E. M. Forster's memoir The Hill of Devi. This 1953 edition by Edward Arnold  & Co (London) with a number of black and white photographs on slippery paper that appear opposite one of the linen weave print pages, has that strange half-old smoke half-foxed smell of old books.  I was tinkering with the idea of copying one of the photos but then I opened my sunroof and noticed this very fine eucalypt had caught the last of the afternoon light.