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Clive Montague never liked me particularly. I certainly never liked him. Loud, boorish, with floppy fair hair, there was—there is—nothing to like. This gives rise to two questions:
Nichol Wilmor is a random traveller and an accidental publisher. He has lived and worked in Tokyo, Casablanca, Barcelona, Hong Kong and Paris and now lives in London where he writes – very slowly – under different names.