Am envisioning the baristas in this novel as heavily armed secret service agents under deep cover, or likewise but wily assassins (lawful good, obv, because that is the Way of the Barista).

I, like my mother before me, am not only the person strangers (and I mean strange) talk to but also the toddler-magnet. The first I can understand up to a point but the second is inexplicable: no, I don't want your rugrats and please detach them from my personal space. Also a dog attractor but I like dogs so that's all good.

Sorry to hear you're having to use cash, like a 20thC peasant.

Pent up rage is so very useful if properly channelled.