ONTRARY to urban myth, Robert Kime and I were not related and I dread the occasional look of disappointment when someone discovers I’m not the nepo baby they thought I was. However, I suspect it was an assumption that he was my father that helped me secure a magazine. Kime must have suspected it, too, because years later, at his shop on Museum Street, he laid a hand on my shoulder and, with a grin, invoked the Gospel of Matthew with the words ‘This is my son, with whom I am well pleased’.
