Fingal

It's much too early to think about all the winter celebrations on the island. But winter doesn't organise itself, as Apple said to me this morning. It needs sorting, she said. And off she went to to add some cinnamon and nutmeg to the brew. (Don't try it, it won't taste any better.)

The tower kitchens smell good. Some of those winter puddings have to be made early and put away to store, so that there are warm, spicy wafts of fruit, almonds, walnuts, hazelnuts, spice, sugar, honey and wine. For a fish-eating animal like myself, it's pleasant. For a fruit and nut maniac - and most squirrels are fruit and nut maniacs - it's joy beyond description, I'm surprised they haven't all fainted with delight and dropped out of their trees. Actually, Almondflower has just dropped out of a tree, but I suspect she did it on purpose. Urchin caught her and she's fine.

The musicians are up to something, too. Sepia takes her choir away to her song cave to practise some new songs for winter parties. It's all very secretive and they're not supposed to sing a note in front of the rest of us. It's very hard not to sing a song once you've got it into your head, and they're all going round biting their lips and crossing their eyes in the effort to keep quiet. Then one of them will get the giggles, and of course they all catch it, and so does everybody else. Truly, I've seen royalty rolling about on the Throne Room floor and thumping cushions.

And what do otters do, ready for the feast? We take fish to the smokery and preserve it in the oaky fumes. And to do that, you have to catch it first, so excuse me. Otter business to see to.