It often seems that all of one's favourite things occasionally conspire to bite the dust all at the same time. Take my favourite shirts, for example. I can't imagine why I ever thought that these scraps of flimsy cotton would last for ever. And why I go through the seven stages of grief every time another shirt 'passes'. And why I fooled myself into thinking there would never be any other shirts in my life. But, silly me, of course there will always be other shirts. And some of them may even surpass my tragically rent garments. I think this is called the Stage of Hope and Acceptance.