In pursuit of the perfect fig moment

There are moments of simple luxury living here, such as right now when you can eat ripe figs straight off the tree. Life-affirming moments which remind you that you weren't completely barking to jack in the day job and come to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous paperwork in France.

So here we have them: Purple figs, locally known as Les Couilles du Pape or The Pope's Balls, though whether affectionately, satirically or downright offensively, I don't know.

Mind you, His Holiness did launch a seriously vicious and bloodthirsty crusade against the heretic Cathars in the Languedoc region round about 12 or 13 something, so it's a fair bet that the fig gag isn't entirely complimentary. In any case, I couldn't let such a deliciously earthy morsel of local folklore go to waste.

I should stress that to have a perfect fig moment, they have to be eaten straight off the tree. There is always something deeply disappointing about the brown and manky things that someone picked the day before and was unfortunately moved to offer you. They will sit, ignored on the kitchen table, while you continue to invent good reasons to avoid them.

Every fig has its day: The day before, it's not ripe; the day after, the birds have spoilt it. So, select carefully, pick, eat, enjoy. It doesn't get much better than this.