It's Tuesday morning at Kings Cross station, the pigeons are dining alfresco on the nuggets of falafel and bagels discarded by commuters, travellers and tourists alike. These people heading to an unknown destination. I pondered what this tumult of wanderers could be doing with their time. Blissfully unaware that I too would be about to embark on my own pilgrimage. A quest for answers, knowledge and understanding. From this brief snippet of organised chaos, we head underground to the rat run that is London's tube system.

My 16-year-old self, sat with my mother and father on the Victoria line making our way to Olympia. The very name of our destination conjured whimsical almost magical images in my head.

Several minutes of silence passed, my father jolted me with an elbow to the ribs "Get up." he said with a firm authoritative tone. I shrugged it off out of tiredness from the journey. He jabbed me again, this time no words left his mouth but instead delivered a stern glance, the one that any teenager is well accustomed to. After relinquishing my seat my father followed suit. Shortly after, a woman with beautiful elegantly flowing fiery red hair and soft porcelain features had proceeded to take my seat.

We had arrived at Olympia after standing for what felt like an eternity, the most of which I spent building a fortified image of the fabled venue, which was drawing ever closer.

We approached the entrance where I was expecting to be greeted by Zeus himself, instead, there were two stiff looking men in suits who handed over a carrier bag filled with free samples and information packs on what the day would have in store for us. We progressed to the ticket barrier where we presented our guest badges and were ushered into a cavernous expanse, filled with cubicles offering more free stuff ranging from frozen yoghurt to biodegradable cups. But there, in the distance surrounded by men and women in their finest attire, covered in an effervescent glow from the lighting above, there stood a dazzling piece of sculpture with steam intermittently firing into the ether.

I approached with some trepidation not knowing what or how it was pulling in such a crowd.

After 15 minutes, the mass of people began to subside and there stood, not some Athenian god or goddess but instead a rather tall, lanky man with a closely shaved head and elongated nose (as well as the rest of his facial features) dressed in a freshly pressed velvety black suit.

He gently caressed what I can only describe as an object of sheer beauty, his motions so fluid, so efficient. He continued to do this for several minutes, handing out dainty cups that upon delivery gave the recipient a hit of what looked like pure euphoria, the look of pleasure pouring from every person seemingly building into a climax one mouthful after another.

The moans and groans released by the crowd was almost contagious, each one more joyous than the next. That was it. I wanted in.

I forced my way to the front of the crowd and was instantly handed a porcelain cup by one of the women conversing with the maker. I accepted the vessel in the same way a kid might go in for their first kiss, full of nervous anticipation. Slowly bringing the cup to my lips, I paused. I inhaled deeply through my nose, the aroma hit me. My heart began to race. I looked around. Searching for affirmation, was it OK to drink? Everyone was transfixed with their own experience. So I looked down at the cup again, now perched on my hands as if they were a pedestal, filled with this white elixir embossed with a golden hue. My lips approach the rim, my heart gathering pace, I took my first sip. Silence.

Everything around me muted, the crowd had disappeared into the distance like fond memories, the lights dimmed and there was nothing left but me and the cup.

Such bliss, such pleasure, such elegance. My heart felt like it had paused for an eternity, the creaminess was unimaginable but still, there it was, coating my mouth, fondling my taste buds, playing with all of my senses. I turned to the lanky man in astonishment.

He turned back to the liquid gold dispenser and continued to fulfil the desires of the hedonistic crowd.

I walked away, left in a state of confusion. Why had I not tasted anything this delicious and satisfying before. To me, coffee had always been a teaspoon of Nescafe, five sugars and half a pint of milk just to drown out the taste, and here at Olympia, a home of a true god, I just had my world shaken, a paradigm shift, an epiphany.