My very first flat was, basically, a room and kitchen, in the Cessnock district of Glasgow. It was in a tenement and if you were to look at the building from above it would be a bit like the Flatiron building in New York, in that it was triangular, one side being on Paisley Road West.

The tube station was really close by — it was one of the reasons why I chose the flat. I had no money and needed a station nearby, to save me having to return home by taxi.

It was quite cheap to buy, too, though it was still a bit of a struggle. I bought it in 1989. It was on the market at offers over £17,500, and I got it for £18,100. I had been in a student flat up to that point and had a deposit of £600 to put towards it.

It was on the top floor and very sunny. And by the time I left, in 1993, I had helped spearhead a number of improvements to the building. We had installed, for instance, a door entry system. The stair entry was sometimes used as a urinal by fans on their way to and from Ibrox, which was nearby. And after seeing a rat rummage through the bin bags in the back court, I got people to contribute towards the refurbishment of the bin sheds.

But there had been improvements done just before I had moved in, partly because of the 1988 Garden Festival. The stonework had been sandblasted and new windows put in.

So you could say I was pretty proactive, as a neighbour. And I had the same zeal as far as decorating my flat was concerned. I sanded the floors, I painted it immaculately and I made my own curtains and blinds.

It was, though, really tiny, so there wasn’t much space for furniture, but there is one piece that I continue to have to this day. In fact, it’s in the hall of where I live now. It’s a gramophone that belonged to my grandpa. It was like a sideboard, where one end was used to keep your records. The cupboard doors incorporated the speakers. And at one point, during the 1950s, I think, my grandpa converted one part of it into a cocktail cabinet — complete with mirrors, Formica and cocktail stick holders.

I can still play it, it still has the handle inside that you need to wind it up with. In fact, if anyone could find me a copy of a record called Goody, Goody, I’d be eternally grateful. I used to have a copy of it until about 10 years ago, when it was broken. It’s special because I remember my mum tap-dancing to it.

The flat was essentially two rooms, plus a third created by knocking through a recess in the kitchen and the cupboard in the front room. That was the bedroom. So I suppose I slept in the kitchen. It took a full, king-size bed. And I kept some of my clothes in the kitchen drawers. The others I kept in a big cupboard by the door. The kitchen also had a Baby Belling cooker and a gas fire.

Once the door entry system was installed, it really changed the feel of the building. A few young families moved in — probably all aspiring to move into the west end, but not quite able to afford it — and there was a nice, community feel to the place.

It was a lovely, characterful district, with some really interesting shop owners. There was, particularly, a great shoe repair shop. Lovely, straight-talking people. And when I first got to know them, I had yet to appear on television. At the time I was earning quite a handsome wage, working at Scottish Opera. Taggart came along after I had been living in the flat for a year, and — bit by bit — people started to recognise me “from the telly”.

It could get a bit awkward, however. The local baked-potato shop insisted I have a meal for free and I had to argue that I didn’t want it. I used that place so often — cooking is not a strong point — that I didn’t want them feeling obliged to offer me something for free every time I walked in.

When I moved out, I actually sold the flat to my brother-in-law on my sister’s side, Danny, who, I might say, drove a very hard bargain. I had put it on the market for offers over £23,500 and he bought it for £1,000 less. He then rented it out.

He has since more than made up for it, because the house I moved into — before the one I am currently in — he sold to me at much less than its market value. And who was living next door? My future husband, Tom. We met when I moved in and were married within 18 months.

It gets weirder. Tom then got involved in property development, and one of the first flats he bought to rent was my old flat. So that flat came back into our ownership. In fact, we had it until last year, when we sold it.

I never did revisit it after I moved out in 1993. Tom said it would spoil the memory to see it changed by the various tenants who lived there.

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