During the Celtic Connections music festival in Scotland, I found myself wedged into the Glasgow School of Art's sweaty student pub. Festival-goers and aspiring young artists were spilling beers and chatting while we waited for the next act. I was lucky enough to snag a seat, sliding in next to two women -- one maybe 20 years old and the other about twice her age. Both appeared to be more than a few pints deep.
"This is my mum," the younger woman told me, laughing as if it were the most novel thing she'd ever told anyone. "Can ya believe it? My mum is in the pub?"
"Look," the mom said with the same insistence you might expect from a burly, red-bearded man pointing a shot of whiskey at you. "If I'm gonna have a daughter with a flat in Glasgow, I'm going to come and fuckin' visit. This --" she said, motioning around at the pub, "you don't get this at home."
I asked if they partied together before the daughter headed to college.
"Ah, fuck no," the mother blurted. "But you don't have a place to stay in Glasgow and not come."