eleven for heaven - NUFC

He's so blonde here I hardly recognise my special guy!

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“My money is looking well,” Isaac Burn said, taking in the lands through the window of the study. They greyish spring day had softened into late afternoon, and the clouds glowed like pearls at their edges. Fabian wondered if Mr. Gordon might like to hear of it, and how he might describe it. He suspected such gentle days were not to be found in Barcelona in May.

“I am honoured you think I make good use of it.” Fabian sipped his tea. Burn Senior had been in the house for one hour, and Fabian was superficially regretting sending his children scattering. So far, he had endured lectures on the shortcomings of foreigners, the immorality of Catholics, the state of the roads, the capricious nature of young women generally and the current generation in particular (Fabian made a mental note to enquire of Messrs Ryder and Hope in the village, two incurable gossips, if they knew what poor young lass had turned down Burn Senior's hand in marriage this month) and the miseries of old age (he was fifty-six).

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Everyone: dude this you?