Whenever Mother’s Day rolls around, I think of my mum more often than usual, and it usually culminates in my dreaming about her. That happened last night. It was a brilliant one. We were walking in Glasgow, and she was telling me stories about her time there when she was younger. We stopped in at a shop where she bought me a Scotland hat, telling me I needed it for the World Cup. It was one of my best dreams in forever, but as so often happens when she makes those visits, I woke up feeling hollow and depressed. This shall pass.