In other news, sometimes I forget Finestre isn't merely a rather charming raven-haired embodiment of all that is evil, a senior level demon and inventor of much of the diabolical we take for granted. As the Demon of Such Things, she's patient, and like a particularly tenacious mountie – if they wore a lot more black and could wither a mortal soul with an idle glance – she always gets always her man. So there I am working away, safe in the knowledge that auto-save has me in a warm, safe, comfortable hug. And then, and it's a rare thing, the spinning wheel of terminal hesitancy. Nothing is quitting. OK, life is too short, let's cut out at the faff and hold in the power button, because everything has been busily autosaving. It'll all be fine when it restarts. Of course.
Except, for some reason that will likely never be disclosed, it hadn't been busily autosaving. It just hadn't bothered but also hadn't bothered to tell me it hadn't been bothering. That's precisely 59 minutes of my life I won't have back. Is that laughter I hear from the underworld. Chortle it up, demons.
Lest not complacency maketh your bed, as someone once said in a cod-olde Englishe manner. And a hearty fucking shitbuckets macuntybollocks.