Hardeep Singh Kohli - Emotions come with a small 'e' for a proud son when mum drops into my inbox

On an average day I receive about 56 e-mails. Half are work-related, a quarter from friends and the remainder inform me of the myriad ways I can enhance my manhood or last a little bit longer in the bedroom department. (For many years I thought I was the only man to receive these.)

On Tuesday, in and amongst all these was a very special e-mail indeed. It was the first ever e-mail from my mum. The subject line said it all: "mum trying to send an e-mail". It was one of the sweetest and most touching messages I have ever received.

It's a curious thing, but I have had my mother speak to me for nearly 40 years. I know every nuance of her speech pattern, the urgency each syllable and every word imparts. I have never read anything that my mum has written, her writing career mostly consisting of lists and then specialist reports and documents. She never wrote for pleasure, never wrote in her own voice. Until she wrote this e-mail...

I should explain. Hari is what I have been called by my family since I was a boy. I railed against it since people insisted upon Anglicising it to Harry; I am no Harry. "ki haal chaal hai" translates from the Punjabi as "how are you doing?". My mother has never actually asked me how I am doing in English and, although she has been asking me this for years, it wasn't until I saw this written down that I fully comprehended what she was asking me. I love the image of my mum "desperately" trying to type a message.

I can't believe how something as simple as a single e-mail can evoke such deep emotion within me. It was bad enough when my mum got a mobile phone. Now she is cyber-savvy.

What impresses me about my mum (and my dad)

is how they refuse to allow the modern world to overtake them. This is true of that entire generation of parents – perhaps the adoption of technology is universal across all Scottish 60- and 70-year-olds (research shows they spend longer on the internet than any other generation).

But my mum was born and raised in a poor family in Nairobi just after the Second World War. She started life as a nursery assistant before entering the world of social work. She left to run a wee shop and returned to community work later in life before becoming a Justice of the Peace. For a woman of few qualifications she travelled far.

Now she sits in front of her own recently purchased laptop and sends me a message, a message she is "desperately trying to type". I don't mind sharing the deep pride I have in my mother, a mother like so many other mothers, who has done nothing but desperately try all her life. Now her sons have grown, she's still trying. And I'm still proud.

I've found my personal Johnny

I've been listening to a Johnny Cash album of late, American IV. It's a beautifully stripped-down piece of work featuring a handful of poignant cover versions, something Cash became more famous for at the end of his career. His voice brings new resonance to tracks such as Simon and Garfunkel's 'Bridge Over Troubled Water', 'Hurt' by Nine Inch Nails, and 'In My Life' by The Beatles. It seems every time Cash turned his attention to another artist's work he managed to excavate a different or deeper meaning from the song. He also covered Depeche Mode's 'Personal Jesus'.

I remember not liking the original and while I love Cash's pared down, bluest take on Dave Gahan's tune I am still left working out what exactly

a personal Jesus is. If one can have a personal Jesus, can there also be an impersonal Jesus?

Better than motorway curry… or I'll eat that hat

I drove through the Borders on Monday. What astonishingly beautiful lands they are, that conjoin England and Scotland. I could wax lyrical about the rolling hills, the dramatic skylines and the breath-taking vistas. I could. But I won't. Rather I'd like to talk about the service stations that line the motorways and major roads in our United Kingdom.

Heading back to London, I felt compelled to stop for a spot of luncheon. How many times have you found yourself stood at the servery of a motorway service station and lost the will to live? I know that they have a monopoly on the hot meals available on long journeys and one senses that they are only too well aware of this. There is always a rubbish curry on offer, served by a man in a white paper hat. That and all-day breakfast. You would think that is the extent of the food we have in this country. I think service stations should re-brand. There are hundreds of thousands of potential customers no more than a junction away from these service stations. Why limit your business only to long-distance travellers? Why not open your horizons, pull in the locals and make yourself a destination for a 360-degree food experience.

Oh yes. Mushroom Monday would be a day when all dishes revolved around a mushroom theme. There would be a mushroom buffet, eat as much as you have room for, the cleverly titled "Muchroom Mushroom Buffet". Wednesday would be international day with foods from lesser-known countries on offer. Lithuanian day, Guatemalan day and Easter Island day. This gives a cosmopolitan feel to the place. And finally, and perhaps most insightfully, a BBQ Sunday. The car parking area on a Sunday would be given over to a fully-fledged BBQ. Burgers, sausages, chicken wings and a whole roast pig. This could be combined with a car boot sale. Please help me out here. All ideas welcome. Anything's better than a rubbish curry served by a man in a white paper hat.

The profit and the floss

There are many signs of ageing. Greying hair, an unshiftable paunch, thinking contemporary music is a bit noisy. Add to this list dental hygiene. I have just purchased an electric toothbrush. I have always had fairly good teeth, exceptionally good when compared with the average number of teeth in the head of the average Glaswegian. But nonetheless I have found myself becoming more and more preoccupied with the thought of losing teeth and having to wear dentures. Now those adverts that came on during Countdown that feature an older couple biting an apple or chewing a steak with confidence seem more and more targeted at me. And now I floss. Three dentists over 15 years failed to convince me of the benefits of flossing. Vanity finally did the job. Now I give over more than 20 minutes of my day to brushing and flossing. While my teeth might still be in decent nick in a couple of decades time, there is no guarantee for the rest of me.