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.