Saturday morning in a side street off the canal, the cheese seller cuts a wedge of old Gouda, crumbs on the brown paper, sun on the scale, his thumb on the knife the way his father held it, and he says nothing about funnels or content calendars, only taste this, and the woman tastes, and her neighbour tastes, and by noon the whole street knows. Good product first. Then shout it from the rooftops.