Back in Rome after a wonderful weekend with dear friends near Newmarket (of which, more later) by Ryanair, which has the distinct benefit, aside from price, that they don't try and feed you 'pizza'. What better celebration, then, than a pizza. Down on the Lungotevere, the proprietor invited me to join him at his table. I had simple mozzarella di bufala with pachino tomatoes and rocket, and it was sublime. My faith in this most perfect food was fully restored. And the fruit salad, with a topping of whizzed blueberries, blackberries and cream, was refreshing beyond belief, on a day when, so Giorgio the proprietor told me, the thermometer in the shade on his balcony touched 38°C.