Stell walked home from the pub. Well, after all those shots, more like "staggered" the short distance to her Mum's house where she'd moved back in order to "save for a deposit" for a place of her own. At the rate this plan was going, she'd be able to afford a tiny flat at the age of approx. 103 in Zone 7. And London only had 6 zones... Still, independence at pension age was FAR preferable to asking Rog' (or Dad, a.k.a. "The B*stard") for financial help. Stell shuddered at the thought and pulled her Hammers' over-jacket tighter around her. "Ouch!" she said aloud, as the first aches in her body seeped through the dissipating alcohol. The real soreness wouldn't reach its peak for a couple of days, before which there was always the dubious pleasure of reacquaintance with her Jaeger-bomb-induced, Monday morning hangover. Surprisingly enough, this Monday morning feeling never seemed to improve her relationship with her boss... Plus, she was still single. "Prime of your life, eh?" she could hear her inner voice nagging, before it broke off into demented, sarcastic laughter. "Are you going to do something about this or what?" it managed to sneer through the guffaws...