Your account

Your photo, the clock and the date order you read, your password, and the machines that are not asked for a code.

Why it existsSettings is the organisation — its name, its logo, its timezone — and there is one of it however many people work there. This is the other half. Two colleagues in the same publisher share one Settings page and have one of these each, and nothing on it changes anything a colleague sees, which is why it needs no role and no permission.

Your photo and your name#

Both appear beside anything you change — on the team list, and in the history of who did what. A photo is worth the thirty seconds on an account more than one person works in: a row that says a name is read, a row with a face on it is recognised.

Your sign-in address is shown here but changed by an administrator, on purpose. It is where your code and any reset link are sent, so a typo in it is not an inconvenience — it is an account nobody can get into.

The clock and the date order#

Left alone, both follow the region your language belongs to: an English interface in a British browser already writes 14:30 and 15/09/2026, an American one writes 2:30 pm and 09/15/2026. Set either one and it follows you instead — to every page, and to this browser and the next.

Your account → the clock and the dates

Clock1

24-hour — 14:30

Dates2

Day first — 15/09/2026

1Both start on “Follow my region”, which is right for almost everybody.

2The preview underneath is the real formatter, so what it shows is what every page will show.

Dates written out in words keep their own order

The setting is about the ambiguous form — 09/15 against 15/09, which is the one people genuinely misread. A date written “15 September 2026” is already unambiguous, and is left in the order the language puts it in.

The language, and what interrupts you#

The interface language is on this page, and changes as you pick it — the menu at the top of every page sets the same thing. It is remembered against your account as well, so mail arrives in the same language: an invitation or a billing notice is written on a server where your browser is not present to be asked.

The notification switches are here too, and they are the one thing on this page that belongs to the machine rather than to you — the same account in the back room must not make that screen beep all night. They say so, they take effect as you flick them rather than waiting for Save, and they are the same switches as at the foot of the notification centre: one setting, two places to reach it. Notifications explains what is written down and what merely pops up.

Changing your password#

You are asked for your current one as well as the new one. A session can be a laptop somebody walked away from, and the one thing that must not be possible from an unattended screen is locking its owner out of their own account.

It signs out every remembered device, this one included

Changing a password is often the answer to a suspicion, so no device survives it. The next sign-in anywhere — here too — is asked for a code again. That is one code, once, and it is the difference between a password change and a password change somebody else's browser sat through.

Remembered devices#

Signing in asks for a six-digit code unless this browser has been here in the last 48 hours. The ones inside that window are listed, with when each was trusted and when it runs out. Signing in safely covers why the second step exists at all.

Forget all of them does what it says, and deliberately offers no way to remove one. Somebody who wants this wants it because they no longer recognise the list — picking rows out of it is a decision they are in no position to make.

Example

A laptop is left on a train. From any other machine: change the password. The laptop's session is not what matters — its remembered trust is, and that goes with the change, along with every other. Whoever has the laptop now needs the new password and the mailbox the code goes to.