For the past two weeks, I’ve had to use a laundrette. Laundrettes, in my experience, are seedy places, like run-down bus stations with no staff, functional public areas open to all comers and therefore dirty, neglected and a little dangerous.

Getting a bike for Christmas in the mid-1970s was a big deal. Mine was a girl’s bike, with small wheels and step-through frame. My brother had a yellow easy rider with a long banana seat.

When the gynaecologist told me I had cancer and that I’d need at least two months off to recover from the inevitable hysterectomy, one of my reactions was relief. Two months off work! Two whole months!

After years of having to go to London, Tokyo or Singapore to buy HeatTech tops, non-trendy jeans and infinitely stretchy trousers, I can now go to the slightly less nasty part of Argyle St in central Glasgow.