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going to The Seaside.

Chapter Two
    The noble Society of Literary Lionisers had come into being almost twenty-five years previously, founded by a group of gentlemen
     who, indignant at being unable to gain admittance to the Literary Club, convinced themselves that the proud traditions of
     Dr Johnson’s Club were being eroded. The Society set itself the modest ambition of instilling in the masses, or such masses
     as could afford their membership fee, a greater appreciation of the works of the literary giants of Great Britain, with a
     passing acknowledgement to the achievements of less favoured nations. Alas for good intentions: the Lionisers found their
     ideals somewhat more difficult to sustain than they had supposed and, moreover, since lovers of literature are not necessarily
     noted for their organisational abilities, the committee in particular suffered from squabbling and undercurrents no less vicious
     for their being somewhat concealed than they had been in former times when David Garrick was so brutally blackballed from
     Johnson’s Club.
    Only the presence of the Prince of Wales had prevented the passions of the present committee from overspilling into open warfare
     during their dinner at Gwynne’s. The committee numbered six, an awkward number for efficient functioning, but the founders
     of the Society had blithely assumed that between men of culture no quarrel could possibly arise that could not receive amicable
     resolution.
    Although the monthly meetings held at St George’s Hallor the Savoy Hotel fulfilled the original aims of the Society, the committee meetings held in a private suite in nearby Gwynne’s
     Hotel most definitely did not. Occasionally, especially since the appointment of Mrs Langham and Mr Michaels, accord was achieved
     without verbal bloodshed. However, the meeting to which the six members were now making their way was, they all knew, not
     going to be one of those occasions.
    Each year a literary figure was chosen (by the committee) as the Lion of the Year. For twelve months the members would study
     the works of the great man (or, occasionally, woman), listen to learned authorities discussing his work and to actors declaiming
     it, and endeavour to instill in various dignitaries the overwhelming case for statues, monographs, busts and commemorative
     china, and, most importantly, the need for preservation of buildings and places known to and described by the current Lion.
    The highlight of the Society’s year was the Week of the Lion. En masse, the Society would descend on his ‘Lair’, the haunts
     where the Lion had roamed in fact or in his imagination on his pages, in order more fully to appreciate his every word, and
     to ensure that his homestead and/or other locations described by him were being maintained in the proper respectful spirit.
    At first the choice of the Lion of the Year had been sacrosanct; now, regrettably, impure considerations were creeping in
     to his selection. Before he received the accolade of the Society, it was necessary that thought should be given as to whether
     he had been sensible enough to reside in or describe in his works a suitable venue for the Week of the Lion. A particularly
     zealous committee had one year lit upon Daniel Defoe as a subject, thereby consigning the Society to a choice of a week’s
     holiday in Stoke Newington, an unknown desert island, or a Tour through the Whole Island of Great Britain. The following year,
     Lord Byron, with hismore enticing prospect of foreign travel, was hastily selected by a more practically minded committee.
    Obligingly, Mr Charles Dickens presented no such problem. After some anxious debate as to whether the location for the Week
     of the Lion should not more suitably be Rochester, it was unanimously decided that Broadstairs, with a day visit to Rochester,
     would be blessed with the Society’s presence. This discreet resort, presenting none of the disadvantages of crowded Ramsgate
     or merry