I used to work as a cashier. Usually, if someone came to the express lane with a few more than ten items, they did it by mistake. If they realized it while they were putting the items on the belt, they’d usually apologize and try to go to another lane, at which point I’d say, “Nonsense! Why, I’ll be done before you know it!” and then proceed to whisk their items into a bag with all due professional bravado. We’d laugh and they’d be done as quickly as the spirit of the express lane required.
If, however, they were one of the few who was trying to skirt the rules, I’d spurn them. I could always tell. They’d try to be sneaky, but they’d have an entire shopping cart full. “Ma’am, you’re going to have to go to another lane, the people behind you are in a bit of a hurry.”
Then there were the ones who were in between. Maybe only twenty items. Few enough that I couldn’t, in good conscience, turn them away, but enough that I knew they were pulling a fast one (or a slow one, as the case may be). To them, I’d say not a word, only glare at them. But in my head, I was beating them bloody with a french loaf. It was glorious.