After fifteen-minutes of picking-up, examining and thoughtfully contemplating the aesthetic merits of various whiteboards, I chose one from the rack at a rather pricey $52. It would go well on the wall and its black trim would match my MacBook, I told myself. As you rang up my purchase I noticed the bright green numbers on the till’s screen read a meagre $27—almost half the total I actually owed. I thought about my next step carefully; I had the opportunity to say nothing and make off with more than enough money leftover for a quality six-pack and a hearty donair. The potential guilt weighed heavy on me, as if I was giving Andre the Giant a piggyback straight to hell. A childhood of Catholic Sundays forced me to awkwardly mumble my way through the explanation of the mix-up. But you let me know that it was in the system at that price so that was the price I’d pay. Jesus and my bank account smiled upon me.