When I lived in Florence, I had a heap of plants in my tiny attic flat, that like me, lived on a diet of sunshine and cigarette smoke. It’s a wonder they survived as long as they did. I left them behind when I moved back to London, and since then, I’ve more or less avoided plants. I’m that person who sings to plants, talks to them, and then forgets to water them for two weeks. I’m that person who chucks the orchid the moment it drops its last flower. And then this funny thing happened. Last week, for the first time in years, I felt a quiet urge to care for a plant. The very next day, my mother-in-law, as though she had read my mind, appeared at our home with an orange tree. I love orange trees; the pops of colour, the heavenly scented blossom, the pretty, waxy leaves. If there is ever a plant that could turn my thumbs green, this is it. I may even cut the spike on my ailing orchid back to a node and give it a chance at a re-bloom. Just kidding. Small steps, one plant at a time.