A soft, misty morning is irresistible to the hunter. That most elusive of prey, the good picture, is sure to be out there somewhere. Being a master of disguise, this highly prized rarity is often cleverly disguised in a cloak of dullness from beneath which it sneers, unseen, at the big picture hunter who is standing before it yet seeing nothing. To ensure that the hunt is a cruel, unfair contest the good picture has an ephemeral ally known only as “light”. I remember when I was an assistant to a celebrated photographer, , some 40 years ago, that he would point out the quality of light to me ad infinitum and I equally remember not having a clue what he meant. It seems to take a lifetime before the mental cataracts are lifted, ironically just in time for the physical ones to begin to take their place. Pictures, like sudden emotions, are passing and irrecoverable but nor irreplaceable. As with emotions they appear unbidden and one is ready for them, or not. There is also the problem of not knowing, at least until a later point or maybe never, as to whether they were the real thing, whatever that may be.