KEATS'S FALL AND HOOD'S REAL AUTUMN

I woke up at 3:30 again. It was dark and cold. I think it's going to be a long winter.

But let's not get ahead of the seasons. The leaves are still clinging to the trees and the sun is genuinely warm through the clear blue sky.

I've been thinking for a while now that there are more than four seasons. Call it a result of global warming if you like, or perhaps just a noticeable transition as the year rolls on, but there are certainly at least two types of Autumn. And I think we're coming out of one and into the other.

First there is Keats's autumn - the "season of mists and mellow fruitfulness". This is the chilly breeze and the golden sun, the cloudless skies and the translucent, yellowing leaves.

I think if we were to call it anything, we ought to call Keats's autumn, the Fall. And to be honest, there is something rather North American about it. It's mostly dry and mostly bright and summer clings on and casts long shadows in the early afternoon. I like Fall. It's my favourite.

But Keats's Fall does give way to the Real Autumn. And the Real Autumn is Thomas Hood's Autumn. "No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon..."

He's a grump, Thomas Hood. And why wouldn't he be? In the soggy, dank, Real Autumn, the crispy leaves get mulched at the side of the road as cars swish through puddles. Lamplight glistens in the early mornings and the freezing fog fills the streets. Condensation turns to ice on the windscreen and the pavements sparkle with cold under the twinkling stars.

In Real Autumn, you can see your breath and you can feel the cold pounding your heart and rifling through your coat and scarf. It's icy, damp and miserable. You go to school (or work) in the dark and you come home again... in the dark. It's Real Autumn because it's very British. And it's on its way.

I wrapped the duvet around me a little tighter, lying there in the cold. Insomnia is pretty awful in the searing heat of summer, but when it gets chilly in the small hours, getting up for a glass of milk, reading about sculptors, or inventing word puzzles in an attempt to get to sleep, could all get a bit tiresome a bit quickly.

I closed my eyes and thought of Keats.