My favourite moment from my favourite film is when the skies open and the rain comes pouring down in the Sound of Music.

Seven hostile children cower on the bed of their new governess, who gives them a lesson in her favourite things in life. "Raindrops on roses, and whiskers on kittens," she starts to sing. In an instant their hostility is swept away and they become so over-excited that they start ripping down the floral curtains so that she can make romper suits from the fabric.

I tried to recreate this happy scene on a drizzly day in the office last week by asking colleagues to name their favourite things about being at work. They looked blank. "Going home?" they suggested. "Being left alone to get on with work?"

My interest in the subject came from a new theory of happiness that says the only reliable pleasures in life are the small ones. Big pleasures - like religion or marriage - are leakier vessels than they used to be and life is getting so stressful that little things are all we have to keep us sane. The theory is expounded in Froth on the Cappuccino - How Small Pleasures Can Save Your Life, by Maeve Haran.

Clearly it is nonsense. Small pleasures have always been huge, as Fraulein Maria knew so well. Margaret Thatcher apparently knew it too - according to Ms Haran, the former PM once claimed her greatest satisfaction was taking the fluff out of the tumble drier. It's a nice story but I doubt it.

I can see that removing fluff could be more satisfying than smashing the National Union of Mineworkers, but only if one has a slovenly approach to laundry. I harvest my fluff so infrequently that I get great handfuls of grey felt, which is satisfying. If it is done daily, as was surely the case in Maggie's well-run household, it's no fun at all.

Ms Haran goes on to list all her favourite things, many of which are my favourites, too.

I'm also fond of early nights and find that not getting a parking ticket is almost enough to make me believe in God. But she also turns out to like cleaning windows (which is surely boring, hard work and frustrating) and four-poster beds (which are pretentious, claustrophobic and too short).

Yet what is most noticeable about the book is that none of her small pleasures are to be found in the office - which is a shame as work takes up most of our waking lives.

Last week, I set about trying to fill the gap by collecting a rival list of small office pleasures. At first I found it hard as "pleasure" and "office" seem to occupy distant parts of the brain. The only pleasures I could think of were ones that were swept away a long time ago.

In the old days there were long, boozy lunches on expenses. There were secretaries who obligingly took dictation. There were corner offices with wood panelling. There were people who used to say "Good Morning, Mr so-and-so". There were tea ladies and cake trolleys.

The office of the seventies seems a temple to pleasure compared with today.

Actually, though, the modern office is better than it looks. Work remains a perfect breeding ground for pleasures, as nice things feel even nicer when set against a background of compulsion, duty and drudgery.

For me the small pleasures start on arrival. Lattes with lids and Danish pastries to eat at your desk. Doing e-mail in the office before anyone is in.

Objects can give pleasure too. A really comfortable chair at just the right angle and height. A new packet of paper for the printer.

Above all, the stationery cupboard. To visit it, as I did last week, and to find it fully stocked with good pens and the precise size of batteries I needed gave me an intense stab of joy.

There are lots of pleasures associated with routine. A commute can be comforting. So can the familiar structure of the week. The same sandwich bar for lunch has a lot to be said for it.

The biggest pleasure comes from other people. There is the simple, daily business of asking: did anyone see that weird programme about Stephen Fry last night?

If you work in an office you are a bit part in a soap opera, which is very nice indeed. Gossip and flirting are big small pleasures, and the office is the right place for both.

There is another category of pleasures that don't feel at all pleasurable until you try living without them. IT help desks are one. Air conditioning in a hot summer is another.

The work itself can give joy: finishing a tiresome job or doing something well. While work can be satisfying, skiving can be more so. Doing the supermarket shop on the home computer gives no pleasure. Doing it in a quiet five minutes at work gives quite a bit. Getting time back feels good: a cancelled lunch is the best possible start to the day.

But headiest of all are small boosts to the ego. Somebody congratulating you on a piece of work. Someone saying they like your new hair-do. These boosts can happen as often as one likes: the pleasure never dulls.

In all, I have so many favourite things at work that I feel a song coming on. "Sta-tion-ery cup-boards/And la-ttes with lids on/Small e-go boost-ers/And?.?.?." - it is good so far, but there I must stop as I can't think of anything to rhyme with lids on. - (Financial Times service)