Oz was in the conservatory again when Giles got home. He seemed to have forsaken the Insanely Bad Elf in favour of one of Mummy’s bottles of Stoli. Giles slumped down beside him, and mutely held out his hand for the bottle of vodka.
“Hugh dumped me,” he said, after a long swallow and a short coughing fit.
“Bastard. I’ll scratch ‘Upper Class t**t of the Year’ into the side of his Merc with my keys, how about that?” Oz suggested.
Giles groaned, and took another swig from the bottle of vodka. “Wasn’t it ‘Twit’, anyway? In the Monty Python sketch, I mean?”
“Oh, who cares. I think Hugh’s more of a t**t than a twit, don’t you?”
Giles didn’t answer. Was Hugh really a… what Oz had said? Had Giles just wasted nearly two years of his life on… on… a front bottom? And why was he drinking vodka, a
