Even before she opened her eyes, Miriam 'Mirri' Osbourne knew where she was. Snatches of last night were gathering in the far, littered corner of her brain, taunting thoughts, flinging themselves round like strumpets, reminding her gleefully of the evening before and why it really wasn't a good idea to start with Red Bull Martinis, and go steadily downhill from there. Groaning, she shifted slightly in...bed? The floor? A sofa? Having worked out where she was, and why, Mirri's excact whereabouts were still drastically unspecified. All she could possibly hope to divulge was that, no, she wasn't naked, yes, she had a monstrous hangover, and no, she didn't take off her makeup last night. The latter was probably the first thing realised, if anything; Mirri really was very vain. Before the evil gremlins started jackhammering on her skull, she just about had time to compute the sticky, gummy residues on eyes and lips. This, perhaps, in part, was why she hadn't yet opened her eyes; but of course, the main reason was that Mirri was AFRAID. Afraid of her surroundings, the company in which she may find herself, the state of her face, hair and clothes, and various other things too dull and tedious to express here, but nonetheless extremely important to the fuzzy, alcohol-saturated brains of a newly 25-year-old girl. But, onwards and upwards, things had to be done. Oh, if only, if only Mirri could have leapt energetically up from wherever she had settled in the not-so-early-hours of that very morning. But no, all she could possibly muster was the strength to finally open her eyes. When she did, the sight that greeted her was, not altogether shocking, merely slightly depressing...a Pepto-pink kitchen, with a slightly grubby black-and-white-tiled floor. Christ, Mirri thought, have I really come STRAIGHT from the 90's? Oh dear. You see, Mirri had woken up in numerous, surprising locations before...the skip up Valley Road, the Ladies' in a pub just off Cork Street, the works. Oh yes, this was one classy lady. But what was strangest about her waking location, was that this was the kitchen of Mirri's boyfriend, Classic Bill; called such, because he had the classic, clean-cut, all-American good looks, and seemed slightly Stepford-ish, too. No, that isn't fair, Mirri silently berated herself. Responding to a fairly urgent-sounding text from him last night, she had hastened over, clad in nothing more than slightly grubby pyjamas, but wearing (thankfully!) a bra. The sight that greeted her as she let herself in through his battered front door was one to be remembered for a long, long time; scores of friends and family, congregated in the shabby living room, amongst which clusters of brightly-coloured balloons lurked. Upon her arrival, the collective shout of 'SURPRISE!', coupled with the simultaneous release of three-dozen party streamers had well and truly knocked Mirri for six. Blushing at the memory, she realised that she wasn't even wearing decent, freshly-washed pyjamas. A good-looking girl at the best of times, Mirri nonetheless instantly hated all Boden, Joules, White Company and La Redroute female models, for making nightwear instantly cute and irresistible. Still, if she'd have turned up in one of the more...questionable, shall we say? If Mirri had turned up in one of the more questionable, but very fashionable lacy negligees that she kept just or wafting glamorously round the flat in, there would've been more than a few raised eyebrows, methinks, especially from Uncle Mark, and Grandpa Eddie.