by Michael Bywater, h2g2 Staff Gloomy B*****d

Autumn. 'Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,' as the poet Keats said. What does that tell us about our brief life on Earth? Nothing. What does it tell us about the poet Keats? That he was a sentimental fool. You don't believe me? What about

Wan as primroses gather'd at midnight

By chilly finger'd spring

then? Sorry, but when it came to meteorology, the poet Keats was a spent force. Unreliable. Not to be taken seriously. The truth is that autumn is hell. Why do you think the Americans call it 'Fall'? Because they are too idle to learn to spell 'autumn' is why, but that's irrelevant. What is relevant is that autumn is full of horrors. Wet rain on suburban roads. Steamed-up bathroom mirrors. Beetles curled up under every stone. The smell of damp sandstone pervading the entire planet. Tube strikes. Old ladies in thick stockings. Leaves on the line. Turning the light on in the afternoon. Mushrooms growing in your shoes. Colds. Clammy disobliging women. Men on station platforms smelling of wet dog.

The only way to get through autumn is to find a new interest in life. But what? Hell, you'll be miserable anyway, so you might as well pick something at random. Like... aleatorics.