Dear Ma Stewart, or as I call you when no one else is listening, Mum.

You’ve been taking The Herald since you were 20, which means that, as of yesterday, you’ve been reading this newspaper for 50 years.

I think it still discombobulates you a fair bit to see your daughter has a byline in “your” paper, even after nine years. You must have thought the job was for intelligent, sensible people and yet, here I am. I think that must be why we regularly have conversations like this:

“I was reading a story about Govanhill in the paper today.”

“Yes, I wrote it.”

“It was about an event happening near you.”

“I know. I wrote it.”

“I thought you might be interested in going along. I’ve cut it out for you.”

“Mum! It’s got my name on it!”

You are a very private person (you’ll remember how long it took me to get a British passport. You wouldn’t hand over the necessary documents as, “I don’t want everyone at the passport office knowing my business.”) so it’s taken you a while to come round to having your exploits detailed in The Herald.

But I’m always pushing you to try new things and I don’t think you realise how much you have inspired me to try new things too.

You get jittery, mum, when I go travelling by myself although you emigrated alone to Australia when you were just 24. It may as well have been the moon, back then, but you were too interesting and curious to use your early 20s for marriage.

You react with beffudled wonder to anything I do that you consider “bold” but you survived nine days in a coma, recovering from a dreadful illness that lost you your hearing yet you never seem bitter. It must have been deeply traumatic, especially given your love of music, but you retrained and carried on.

You raised me by yourself, despite your hearing loss, despite being an "older" mum, despite an unfortunate choice of husband. You are both mum and dad, changing fuses and baking cakes. You worked so hard to keep our wee family of two going.

I know you’d like a handsome son-in-law and I know you put a brave face on having no grandchildren. I’m sorry I haven’t given you family but I hope my other achievements are comfort.

I remember I must have been about eight when I won a competition to be the first child to check out the sparkling new Time Capsule leisure centre. We were in gran’s kitchen and it was sunny and you were so delighted that you picked me up and spun me round the room. Imagine trying to pick me up now. But you’re still delighted when I do well, albeit a little less boisterous.

I remember being wee and holding your hands to walk up your legs and flip myself over backwards. Now I can pick you up, though I’d never dare try to flip you.

I’ve become bigger and bossier while you are the most gentle person. Strangers probably think you are timid. If only they knew about your wicked sense of humour and your laugh, like a match thrown into a box of firecrackers.

I know you still miss my aunt Anne, your friend from first year of secondary school, your soul mate. The odds of having a friend like Anne are so vanishingly small; I know she’d be pleased to see you on your 70th birthday and she’d hope you’d make enough of your new decade for both of you.

I never bothered about having an older mum because you’re so energetic and young of spirit. You tell me off for doing too much but... where did I inherit that from?

We are not the sorts to say "I love you" to one another, because it goes without saying and because we’re usually too busy happily driving each other batty.

But I think sometimes things do need to be said. So here, I love you. And thank you for all the columns.