Ignoring the clearly worded signage on the front door, glued to pane of glass stained on the exterior by sweaty palms and on the interior by fingers lined with butter and spilled coffee, you stride confidently inside.

You march directly to the sales counter and toss your briefcase on top.

"Ma'am, have I got something to show you," you declare to the barista as you undo the metal clasps on your Samsonite. As soon as your merchandise is visible, you wave your hand in your best Vanna White presenter impression. "These," you continue, "are the finest in-"

"Get. The. Fuck," says the barista, her voice growing steadily louder with each words until she screams, "OUT!" She vaults nimbly over the counter and her hands are reaching for your throat before her feet hit the ground.

You run.

She gives chase.

"Read the fucking sign, asshole!" she screams as you make it through the threshold to the relative safety of the cafe porch.

You turn to see her pointing angrily at the small scrap of paper adhered to the inside of the door glass.

NO SOLICITORS unless you are wrapped in bacon it advises.

You take a deep breath. No more excuses, Simon, you tell yourself as you make your way toward the butcher shop across the street, today you're going to make a sale.