THE STORY
One of my old business partners, ‘The Reverend,’ was a very senior Mormon.
We went to the US on business, and he arranged for us to stay in Salt Lake City at the family home of one of the inner circle. They were wonderful — charming, generous, great fun, fantastic family values. I wanted for nothing… except a cup of coffee or tea.
Until they were denied me, I’d never realized how badly I needed a fix. A man can only drink so much orange juice. Milk hadn’t counted as a beverage since nursery school.
On day three, we hit a Salt Lake City shopping mall. The moment we entered, I smelled it — Saint Arbucks. Like a zombie, I lied to my kind hosts: “Just popping over to buy the kids some souvenirs.” Moments later, I was clutching a supersized US Moccachino — essentially a bucket of molten Heaven. I ditched the lid, guzzled like a madman, eyes rolling back in bliss.
By the time I found the family again, the Reverend was browsing sunglasses. I thought I was in the clear. Then came the subtle glances, the twitch of his eyes toward my face. I looked in the mirror. I was wearing a glorious handlebar Moccachino moustache.
THE MORAL
When things go wrong (and they will), wipe your mouth and carry on.