The cats are fighting. This is new.

They’re litter-mates, and never once crossed paws before this summer. But a few weeks ago, in the middle of the night, such a barney erupted that I thought a weasel must have invaded the house. No weasel — it was a family spat. I went to the Y in the morning with an unquiet mind, but relaxed when I came home to find them curled up together in the No 2 comfy chair.

Last night it happened again, this time apparently triggered by the appearance of a strange brown tabby outside the patio door that set Isobel swearing and swatting at the glass. Having seen off the intruder (who never intruded), Isobel then turned on her lounging brother, chased him upstairs with much spitting and yelling, and kept up the hostility all night. Close-quarter battle resumed this morning when Watson crept downstairs for breakfast, and I think I’ll have to let them settle it themselves. But I’m thinking it might be time to consult the vet.

Autumn is taking over in Stratford, too, although it’s still uncomfortably warm at the peak if the day. At night the temperature drops below 10°C, and everything is shrouded in ground mist at sunrise when the air is chillier than the soil. The geese and ducks have yet to start forming up for migration, however, so it’s not quite time to dig out the wool socks.