That strange rustling! Not, my dear children, the leaves being rustled by the wind. Mother nature may play her hand, in the form of wind, through the hair of this earth, namely leaves in trees - Then again, grass could be the earth's hair, metaphorically, but we'll say leaves. Leaves, yes. So, mother nature may play her hand, which is wind, through the hair of this earth, namely the leaves, but that is not the sound that we are hearing currently.

You can hear it: The value of this property deteriorating as we speak. Ghastly! Ghastly! Any future options for taking out loans, setting up trusts or some such to generate income for our university, all gone. Everything I touch turns to a handful of sticky, dead sparrows. Sparrows covered - Absolutely covered, I say! - in the sticky substances of shame, disappointment and regret. Woe!

That hockey lover is behind this. Mark my words. That hockey lover is behind this.