The carpenter who kept insisting he was only visiting
A carpenter arrived in a coastal town with his tools in the boot and a plan to work for the workshop he had always worked for, back home, sending the finished pieces by lorry. That was the story he told at the town gate, and it was true, and they let him in on that basis.
Then the town started knocking. A neighbour wanted shelves. The café wanted a counter. The school wanted forty chairs by September. He said yes to all of it — of course he did — and quietly kept describing himself as a man who worked for a workshop somewhere else. Until the day an inspector looked at the counter, and the chairs, and the queue outside, and asked the obvious question: whose business is this, exactly, and where is it?
He had not done anything wrong. He had simply outgrown the description he came in with. The paperwork he needed was not the paperwork he had — and the fix was not to shrink the business back down to fit the wrong permit.
If your work is here — your clients, your market, your queue at the door — then the permit that describes you as a teleworker for somebody abroad will keep pinching. This one is cut for the carpenter who actually opened a workshop.

