Day 44: By the stars, but hibernation is boring. Especially as it turns out our tribe's rich tradition of oral narrative extends to just one particularly unlikely creation myth involving the magical arrival of the First Clansman from inside a washed up whale on the Great East Beachhead, and his subsequent copulations with a convenient host of willing sealmaidens. I'm afraid hearing Grunewald the Elder crank up the roll-call of our 4,000-year Seal Clan lineage for the thirteenth time was too much for Iolanthe, and she left the cave shortly after the Feast of the Final Mussel to try her luck in the Great Other. She took the last of the razor clam jus with her as well, so we're on freeze-dried seaweed till the spring now. Tamara has a severe cough, caused by the six weeks of unescaped smoke that has built up inside the cave. We medicate her with fresh condensings from the still, but the potion is raw and causes temporary blindness so she is covered in bruises from constantly walking into the cave walls. If this keeps up I'm afraid she is unlikely to be elected as the Maid of the Cave on Fire Night, but I haven't had the heart to break that to her yet. Also, I'm afraid my sealskin undercrackers are beginning to chafe where they've got a bit clogged. Isolde said I should rub some gannet bile onto the affected parts, but I'm not convinced.