I don’t understand exactly what she thinks we need to talk about, but maybe that’s half the problem. - Charles Stross

Here, take this. How about a toast? Confusion to the enemy!"
I raise my glass. "What enemy?"
He shrugs: "IT, Human Resources, the grim march of time—whoever you want, really."

He’s found a teapot and milk and is brewing up, because that’s what the English do when they’ve just broken out of military prison one jump ahead of murderous assassins from an alien death god cult, then survived being shot at by a main battle tank.

I don’t get enough practice at killing people to not feel bad about it; I hope I never do, although that’s looking like a forlorn wish these days.