On Tuesday I ate my first courgette of the season. There are five large courgette plants in my little garden, and no doubt in a month’s time I will be sick to death of their incessant crop, but the first one is always a thing to savour. I picked it as a baby scarcely ten centimetres long, with a big flower still on the end, fried it quickly in butter, and washed it down with a small, dry martini. It’s all about the little pleasures, especially when one should be working.