Can't move for lingerie, big gay weddings, and trying to remember the GOOD THINGS

According to yesterday's edition of the York local paper, The Press, we soon won't be able to move in York for shops selling undies. We are in the middle of a "knicker-boom" apparently. This follows on from the coffee shop boom of the late 20th century and sandwich shop boom of the last couple of years. Skimpies are a definite improvement on both of those previous swellings in my book. The hardworking reporters from the local paper (no story too small) took to the streets of York to gauge local opinion. This was universally a GOOD THING the public of York concurred. Apparently, men are no longer as terrified of buying their other half something more comfortable to slip into, than they were a few years back. Surely, another GOOD THING. It is still a bit of a minefield as far as I'm concerned however. On the couple of times I've dared to do this, I've always remembered the undie sellers dictum "red and black always come back". You can't go wrong. Just write down the sizes on a bit of paper, point at what you like and ask the nice shop girl to lend a hand. They're there to help.
Also in yesterday's press was a report from the Gay Wedding Exhibition that was held at the racecourse over the weekend. It was a screaming success apparently. This is surely, another GOOD THING, which makes three already. Only yesterday was I writing about marriage and it surely has to be morally right that whatever your orientation you have the right to dress up fabulous, drink endless champagne, make an arse of yourself to some disco classics and sob uncontrollably at the niceness of it all. Seriously though the right of gay couples to have their relationships legally recognised has to be one of the major achievements of the past few years. England is a better place for it. In other words, it's a GOOD THING.
Doing what I do best last night, watching TV, I chanced upon a programme about a guy in his late thirties who one day completely lost his memory. He's an Englishman in New York (no not Sting, I wouldn't have watched it if he had been) who was riding the underground and suddenly had no idea who he was. I could put something jocular here about how that normally only happens to me after ten pints, but that would be sad and predictable and despite the amount of TV I watch I do have a life. Anyway, this guy had no idea who or where he was. Confused he walked into the local cop shop, who in turn took him to the local hospital. Eventually they managed to trace one of his friends who slowly began reintroducing him to his old life. What was facinating about it was just how much the new Doug, for that was his name, differed from the old Doug. The old version had been a high-rolling in-yer-face yuppie plonker, who hung out with similarly divvy mates. The new Doug, was thoughtful, much more introspective, happiest in female company and softer spoken. He was studying to be a fine art photographer and had no inclination to go back to being the old him. I can understand why, the new version was a massive improvement. He had little in common with his old friends who wondered who this stranger was sitting down for a drink with them. It raised all kinds of interesting questions about the nature of personal identity. Are any of us really the same person who we were 5 or ten years ago? I've changed an awful lot in five years and I wouldn't want the old me back for the world. Life is much better in my current incarnation.
Change for the better is a GOOD THING, which makes five, which in itself is a GOOD THING. Hang on..