Kittens called Twiglet and Fellini, and pots of flower soup

Any imagination brimming with equal parts New York nostalgia, mania for English eccentrics and aesthetes, learned, revolutionary ideals, and well-named kittens lounging in nooks both moorish and rock and roll, is of a superior and desirable appointment, in the particular estimation of this vagabond stationer. Acquaint yourself with A Bloomsbury Life (located literally "within spitting distance of Hollywood and Vine" and metaphysically somewhere between Brideshead and Sissinghurst Castle) for more divining.