Until that moment, foliage was a blur. Now, for the first time, I understood the filigree complexity, the Technicolor sharpness, of individual leaves: the Fibonacci marvel of capillary leading to vein leading to midrib, a miniature version of trees, or lungs. And the thrill of leafage has never left me. Take me to a famous garden and I’m transfixed, not by the vistas, the mixed borders and shrubberies, but by the tight scrolling of each baby ostrich fern, the heartbreaking lamb’s-ear fuzz of mullein. Visitors to my roof terrace are always disappointed. They’re expecting a meditative sanctuary in soothing pastels, pink frothy astilbe, sappy forget-me-not, or a firework display: infernal orange geums, raspberry Dahlia Aurora’s Kiss, fuchsia… well, fuchsia.
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