Foxglove

Foxgloves are the flower that makes me believe in magic. I know that's a ridiculous thing to say about a common wildflower that grows in every ditch and woodland edge in Britain, but watch the way they appear — tall, stately spires of spotted bells rising out of nowhere in a shady corner you'd written off — and tell me it doesn't feel like something decided to put on a show.

The wild ones are my favourite. That particular dusky pink-purple with the dark-spotted throats, each bell covered in fine hairs, the whole spike leaning slightly like it's listening to something. I could look at the inside of a foxglove bell for an unreasonable amount of time. The patterning is exquisite — like someone hand-painted each one with a tiny brush.

They're biennial, which means they take two years to flower, and I think that patience is part of what makes them feel so rewarding. You see the rosette of leaves in year one and think, alright, I'll wait. And then the following June, this magnificent spike of bells just launches itself upward and you wonder why anyone bothers with anything else.

I don't cut them often — they look best where they grow, in the dappled shade of a woodland edge or the back of a cottage border. But a single tall stem in a narrow vase on the floor next to a bookshelf is one of the most theatrical things you can do with a flower.

Every part of the foxglove is poisonous, and it's the source of digitalis — the heart medication. A flower that can stop your heart and start it again. I find that fascinating and slightly terrifying in equal measure.