Alas, so much of literary fandom can involve ignoring what doesn't fit: not just unsavory facts about a beloved author's personal life or private views, but also the NO FLASH signs and velvet ropes in a historic home, the crowds of fellow fans. Add to all that the fact that those in the legendary Bloomsbury Group wouldn't have wanted me in their homes. Part of their mystique, after all, was their exclusivity. Even if, magically, I somehow came into their orbit, they probably would have had absolutely nothing to do with me, and I wouldn't have been able to hack it if I had been invited to one of their flats in Gordon Square; they would have found me boring and conventional and unlettered, and probably uptight when it came down to it. (Or middle class, if it really, really came down to it.) So, during this particular visit, my plan was to ignore the impulse to conjure them up entirely, just as they would have ignored me. No, this time I'd simply have a bite to eat.