Next morning, Giles woke up slumped face down on top of his bed, wearing only his shirt, which was bunched up under his armpits, and one sock. The cup of tea cooling by his bedside quelled any hopes that Mummy might not have been in and seen him in such a humiliating state.
Levering himself painfully upright, Giles drank the lukewarm, stewed tea. He dressed, and then staggered, shame-faced and heavy-headed, downstairs. Oz was sitting moodily at the kitchen table, glaring at a half-eaten slice of toast. Giles’s stomach lurched in sympathy. “I’ve been a total arse, haven’t I?” Giles said, taking a seat opposite his friend. They both winced as the chair scraped ear-splittingly on the terracotta tiles.
Oz gave him a weak smile. “Not a total arse. Half an arse, maybe. A single buttock.” His
