I dreamt about my dad last night. Well, not last night. This morning. I’d woken up about seven and, being Sunday, decided to go back to sleep for an hour. I dream most vividly during those morning naps.

It was, I think, the first time I’ve dreamed about him since he died.

We were in Edinburgh. The damp turned the stone a darker grey. We stood on the north side of North Bridge, opposite the Balmoral, but in my dream it was a different building. I think it was St Mary’s, in the west end. But the bridge was definitely North Bridge.

Dad flagged us a cab. There was a split second before the cab pulled up when he laughed and smiled and spoke in the voice he had that, even if I couldn’t see his face, I knew he was smiling.

I went around to get in the far side, so he could get in on the near side. I didn’t want him to have to go out on the street. I was excited. My dad and I were going somewhere.

As soon as I slammed my door shut, the taxi sped off. Dad hadn’t got in. I panicked, and shouted at the driver that we had to go back and get him. He was my dad and he’s the one who hailed the cab in the first place. Without him, there wouldn’t be a cab. How could we have just left him there? I looked back but the windows of the car were steamed up with the weather and the rain and I couldn’t see where we left him. I screamed and I cried but we didn’t turn back.

My panic woke me up. My room was sunny and the cat slept at the end of the bed. The morning sun stood in stark contrast to the dreich of Edinburgh.

The realness is disarmed me. The me in my dream wasn’t surprised to see him. He was there, in his Burberry trench coat, happy to be with me. As excited as I was to get where we were going. Maybe moreso.