A double-fault is a difficult one to define, but we do share them with microprocessors. As you may note, I'm reticent to start by calling something central, and stating that it is a unit.
What was destructive may decide that it no longer wants to behave like a weaver male, upon the bark of what we make instinctively.
But then, with it in a cage, we must resist the urge to throw stones at it.
Looking for something that can get me where I 'have been' that made me think the native birds have had their chance, because if we're talking about song birds with lightness of heart we know that we're at the other side of a gulf, I then recall that 'testing' is a profession. This is problematic, because this aught to be a matter of a willing servant, wanting to learn: though writing up a list of things that you think something is doing wrong is at least an improvement on walking over to the desk of the maker of wrong-doers, with notepaper in hand, and with the accusation turned around by a self-confession of ignorance.
In such an environment, where a doer of something right is impossible to define, it is a precious gift when a 'valued client' alerts a maker of fuckups to a problem through the correct channels. But firstly we note that putting things in writing is beneath the dignity of South Africans; and then, in something like email, which is defined by the aggregate of all the most popular clients, multiplied by all the security defences that are put in place for email, being able to resist the urge of going back to the days of 'best viewed in' labels is suggestive of a person living under threat of physical abuse.
See, an office may be attacked at any time. The theft of a handbag, then, serves as an early-warning. When our ears receive what we can't identify, we either say to ourselves, 'someone is taking care of it,' or we don't. As I find I'm quite an inferior animal on the matter of things that are habit-forming, I find I can only bear this failing in mind whenever the temptation is to say that to myself; and so I can but lift my eyes, wishing I could believe in a protector that didn't look at the books, and counting time with a raised heart-rate, until I hear familiar noises that are a clear signal that there is no danger to fear.
The same can happen with a blurred vision, but in that case there's no signal to hope for. Making my own noises, while comfortably ensconced where 'snow wolves' would have to call up a friend in order to be able to force me to look into their ugly eyes, the thought of giving myself something pleasant to look at, comes to mind.
'Doh! I forgot the error I noticed!'