It’s surely a fancy, the conviction that my first memory of newspapering came as a three-year-old, but I swear the smell of the business has been in my nostrils ever since. It is the tang of fresh ink and crisp paper that I recall, or so memory insists, dropped nightly on the pillow I shared with Mum until my father, a pressman, came home from his overnight shift at the long-gone Melbourne Argus.