Lockdown has been tough. Being cooped up, staring at the same four walls all day, every day, with only your sad-sack appearance looking back at you, reflected by the zillion screens in your life. So you’ve turned to nature – or, you know, gone a bit to seed (who hasn’t?) – bringing a little of life and love and greenery into your world. Now you are something of an expert in the field. A savant, in much the same way you mastered brewing coffee and baking bread before now. You are Mr Van Gogh in Provence, Mr Gauguin in Tahiti, gone full bamboo, in touch with, like, the land, man. How do we know? We’ve read your Tarot – flip over a card below to find out which Plant Daddy you are.

It’s a shame. The little potted herb plant you took home from a friend’s wedding, and which you nicknamed Despairia, hasn’t quite made it through, has it? Despite your watering it 42 times some weeks and then not for the next three months – whatever went awry? And now she sits there on your sill, Despairia, amid the odd jumble of thrift store vases and cute canisters filled with foreign currency you no longer have any use for, an accusation, a criticism in the form of shriveled chervil or whatever she once was. Or, is it the case, you wonder to yourself, sitting between piles of unwashed and washed but not put away laundry, that little Ms Desparia is a symbol for 2020? For the you you once were but have mercifully outgrown. And now that she is done and dusted, you are again free, full of potential to go be the you you were born to be? Possibly. But for now, the pot will make a good ashtray for the cigarettes you will publicly deny smoking.

You have your life totally together. You bought your one plant from Bloomscape in 2017 and installed the self-irrigating system so that you hardly even notice it. When you do think of the slightly etiolated fiddle-leaf fig tree, near enough the window to survive, you consider it to be “sculptural”, complementing your four-foot high pile of unread Monocle and Apartamento magazines. The biomorphic leaves lend a nice little contrast, you think to yourself, to the otherwise pristine, cool white and grey minimalism of your apartment. It doesn’t get in the way of the Magnum prints and old concert tour posters you have framed on the wall. And, the important thing, really: it doesn’t make a mess, ugh.

“Monstie”, as you call the riotous, and still rapidly swelling jungle-in-a-pot plant you first bought when you moved in, has now completely overtaken your apartment. In a good way, lending a rich, green variegated backdrop for your online yoga tutorials or thirst-trappy selfies (leading to your first New York magazine mention, and then that really sweet profile piece in Document Journal). When this pandemic is over, you plan on visiting Monstie’s homeland, to pick up a few siblings for her, and then to finally tick that ayahuasca-journey box, and figure out how to monetise your incredible following. And, who are we kidding, most expressly to shed the last little bit of BMI that is holding you back from properly blowing up.

Since lockdown first started, you have taken (at least a few minutes of) six landscape design courses online. You shipped in rare North African species of flowering shrubs to “layer” into your semi-urban home garden. You very admirably (heroically, even, depending on who you ask) spent one hour one Saturday putting some of it in, got a sore back and left the manure in a pile for weeks until a respectable mushroom crop came up instead of a garden. But who are we to criticise? You are going with the flow and are now studying mycology (well, at least you are right now watching the trailer for the doc Fabulous Fungi), and thinking about getting really into ’shrooms, texting your friends, asking who has a hook up on “caps”, and scrolling through Mr Ram Dass’ Instagram account.

You do not play. You are 100 per cent from-seed organic, growing all of your food (and the hemp you sometimes clumsily weave into clothing) on your farm in the countryside. (The devil’s weed is grown in a hydroponic greenhouse in the barn, for fear of Feds – a term you use freely for anyone in any position of authority whatsoever.) Your uniform of wide, flat-brim straw hat and cut-off jeans keeps you mostly free from sunburn, and your occasional muumuu is a vibe if you are checking on your bees. Your soggy lettuces don’t taste of much, but neither do your onions or potatoes. You are often caked in dried dirt and end up sleeping in a hammock on the porch. But, bruh, you are living off the land, a far cry from the consumerist rat race that has destroyed the greatest minds of your generation. Honestly, you haven’t even been up before 10.00am once this week. Who’s better than you?