WHEN staying alone in a hotel, a man powering through a five-figure deal must seize the opportunity for the breakfast of champions. Coco Pops.
The waitress approaches, ready to provide to me the full English. Wondering whether to offer my sophisticated self smoked salmon. Judging whether I’ll take my avocado smashed.
I wave her away. I will breakfast on none of those. I am going to have a bowl of Coco Pops, with full cream milk. Why? Because here in this hotel restaurant I am a powerful man with no one to answer to.
Even though hundreds of people work for me, all of whom need my written permission to urinate, I cannot eat Coco Pops at home. I am told the children would try to follow my example.
But here in this hotel, this former country house which must have hosted 50 lavish weddings this summer alone, facing this luxury buffet. I can do what I bloody well like. Maybe I’ll have two bowls.
At my business dinner last night I ordered the sea bass. For lunch today, closing the deal, I will order sushi. It is only here and now, unmonitored by anyone, that I permit Coco the Monkey to rule my palate.
And then, even though I will no longer be vaguely hungry, I’ll have white toast with loads of Nutella. Don’t look at me like that. I avoid more tax than you pay. I’ve earned this.
