"There was just the part where I woke up in the middle of the night thinking that something wasn't quite right".
I say this in the middle of Angry Fences Shopping Centre, in the coffee shop which Dean and I used to frequent and which, in our absence, has decided to replace all its wonky tables and chairs with more wonky tables and chairs. Oh, and a sofa. Because it aspires to be Starbucks. But more wonky. Dean is drinking tea and eating a sausage roll. I am drinking extortionately priced bottled water. Water that, in five minutes time, will cause me to be sick in the shopping centre toilets.
I continue. "Somehow all my internal organs felt like they were constricted".
Dean begins to laugh. He knows where this is going.
"And then I realised - I hadn't taken them off!"
Because if I had a slinky, silky petrol blue dress for my birthday drinks (last seen on a Sugababe it would appear) then, probably unlike the Sugababe, I also had Bridget Jones pants on. Pants which I was clearly too drunk to think that it might be a good idea to take them off before I fell asleep (the pants themselves would prohibit anyone else seeing them, let alone taking them off).
And then the realisation hits me.
"I'm blaming the pants for the hangover. My organs were too squashed to process the food let alone alcohol".
As Dean laughs I see my future stretch out in front of me: hangovers, Bridget Jones pants and all.
This is what it means to be twenty five.