Sometime between 2.32pm and 3.32pm today a parcel will arrive, a parcel I’ve kind of been waiting for for about five years. My new coat. The one that has been on the catchily-entitled ‘Big Stuff I Want’ list for quite some time.

I have scrimped and saved for this coat, tired myself out working extra hours to justify its expense, done hours of research comparing little Union Flag buttons, pocket shapes and hoods until I’d narrowed it down to my top five picks.

Then I waited, and I waited, until the moment when an email came through telling me the sale had started and I pounced. In the moment that I clicked ‘add to basket’ I saved myself more money than I had ever even paid for a coat before I became a dog walker, someone who had to brave hail storms, gales, and pea-souper fogs, whether I liked it or not (and, largely, I did not).

But this purchase comes with a hefty dose of sadness for my beloved old walking coat, the knackered green parka with the missing button that leaves my legs like icicles, the one I pulled out of a treasured friend’s charity bag almost 11 years ago.

It’s not just a coat, you see. It’s a souvenir from my safe place. It’s dozens of memories. It’s what I wore when I discovered the joy of walking without somewhere to go. Even on those days when I felt like life was lobbing lemons at my head I’d pull it on, zip it up, and feel a little bit better about everything. Those first few seconds still feel like being hugged every time.

This coat started its life with me on walks over muddy fields in the country and through Stowe’s beautiful grounds, past temples and monuments, up hill and down dale with the dearest of dear friends who took me in when I felt like I was standing in the middle of Spaghetti Junction without a road map.

They reminded me what was important in life – and that it most definitely wasn’t having all the tins in the cupboard categorised by content and perfectly aligned to the front. It was a seminal year in my life, and this old walking coat reminds me of that.

This coat was there when I walked beside a beautiful Labrador who came to stay and wished he was mine; it was there a few months later when we took our own rescue dog to the beach for the first time; I wore it when I temporarily conquered my fear of horses to go riding with a young girl who unlocks my adventurous side; and it brought me confidence and warmth when I first went collecting money for charity, but most of all it was there on countless yomps with people I really, really love.

And so we had a last hurrah, me and the coat. I delayed delivery of the new one so I could wear it one last time without the temptation of shiny new buttons that do up all the way down. We took a freezing cold walk on a favourite beach, where the wind tied huge knots in my hair and our hound ran down the sand with his ears flopping about and his stubby tail held high.

Now I’ve emptied out the pockets that once hid the massive heart-shaped pebble that I used to tell my husband I was taking his name when we married, despite swearing since I was a child that I never would; square stones from a Somerset beach; a super flat one that reminded me of a few lovely days in Cornwall; a round one from Morecambe; and a wonky red heart that has lived inside it for so long I can’t remember where it came from. I emptied out the gloves, the sand, and the last few dog biscuits.

But when it came to putting it in a bag for the charity shop, I couldn’t do it.

So now I’ve got to clear out a place in my over-stuffed wardrobe, somewhere alongside the purple glittery halter-neck top that danced me through several nights at the tail end of journalism college; next to the beautiful bouclé ‘smoking jacket’ that Dad bought me as a reward when I told him one Christmas Day that I had finally given up the old weed; and beside a skirt so loved it became slightly see-through from being washed and ironed too often but came out of retirement for one last outing to Dad’s funeral.

Perhaps when I’ve been wearing my posh new coat for a few weeks I’ll feel differently but for now the old one has to stay. I know it has had its day, I know it’s stupid to keep it, but something tells me an over-priced jacket, however smart and snug, can never wholly replace a scruffy, worn-out one that holds a decade of happiness in its lining.

When I see a lovely piece of Mid-Century furniture, a sequinned flapper dress, or an antique diamond ring, I love to wonder about the stories behind them; newly-weds kitting out their home with an Ercol sideboard they’ve saved up for, a dress that’s been danced in ’til dawn, a ring that marked the beginning of a happy life together.

This little table has quite a tale to tell and it’s one I know well.

It was made by my dad, back in the day when people did stuff because they had no money. Dad made this table before I was born. He was recuperating from TB and the patients were given projects to while away the long days.

When I was a kid this table was our boat. My big brother would turn it upside down and we’d climb aboard together, one at each end.

Its mottled blue Formica top made it glide across the carpet, taking us off to wonderful places (well, to the telly and back). I imagined the green and gold swirly carpet that I truly hated was a brilliant blue sea. If I was lucky my brother would sometimes become my gondolier and he’d stand behind and scoot me round the sitting room whilst I sat on-board and squealed.

Over the years it fell out of favour, got replaced by a glossy shop-bought thing, and somehow ended up in the greenhouse with dad’s prized tomatoes growing on top. The wood became parched by the sun, and split by winter’s frost, the Formica long gone.

When mum and dad downsized I went to help clear out 50-odd years of clutter and saw it poking out the top of a skip.

During those weeks I’d let a dozen things go to the charity shop that I now wish I had kept so I’m incredibly thankful that I was having one of my sentimental days.

To Dad’s surprise I insisted it was saved. We hauled it out of the skip and off it went on the removal van to sit in their new garage in Devon. Years later I collected it, sanded down for me by dad, and it sat in my spare room with dreams of giving it a Formica finish once more. Many moons passed and eventually, after dad died, it moved to my sitting room, repainted but still in a sorry state from its tomato days.

Then one day, armed with some money saved up from birthdays and after years of swooning about her marquetry work, I emailed Lucy Turner.

“Send me a picture of your little boat,” she said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

The day she met me in a car park, trundling up in her funny Citroen van with Shabba the Jack Russell by her side, was a happy day. We talked of juicy pink flamingos, she told me she suspected underneath the layers of paint that the parched old wood was teak, she was vibrant and excited and full of enthusiasm.

I had no qualms about sending this precious thing off to her workshop by the sea in Cornwall to be brought back to life.

And this, this is what she’s done. This wonderfully talented, super-lovely designer has given our little boat’s tale a happy ending. I adore it beyond belief.

I so wish my dad was here to see it.