Recently, my garden fantasies have extended to a table. Specifically, one of those substantial, move-it-if-you-dare stone tables, weathered beautifully with some mottling and moss, standing on gravel beneath the dappled shade of a tree.
I long for this table because, in the similarly fantastical small urban garden in my head, it is the answer to a number of problems. In the summer it hosts languorous meals, but given that even my imagination can’t conjure a British summer where we regularly dine outside, the fantasy table mostly holds plants – seasonal ones in equally elegant, weather-beaten pots.
