If I ever become famous...

I'm almost thirty and it's becoming evident: I'm running out of time. But, if in the next few years I do somehow find fame as a medical marvel, a wonder of journalism, for discovering a new dinosaur, for winning the Nobel Peace Prize or for ending up surviving a plane crash in the jungle, I'm sure people will be clamouring to my childhood home to get a glimpse of where it all began. So here's a quick tour.

It's a simple dwelling. A ground floor flat in a bit of a crappy council estate. Number 6.

You'll see the communal drying area outside my bedroom window. It wasn't always like that, it was once green. On the street outside my bedroom was where, as a girl not even in her teens, I heard a scream from a man being beaten with rocks. This was a pivotal moment in my life: when I realised doing good around bad people will mean problems and a stint of witness protection.

You'll hear the tour guide explain it all, you'll look around and you'll realise how my roots really had a massive part to play in my fame. "She didn't always have it easy," people will say while taking photos and thinking about the contrast of my new found fame. "I love how down-to-Earth she is."

The green(ish) hallway, where my sister and I would pick off the anaglypta wallpaper and chase each other pretending to be T Rex, terrifying ourselves until we hid in the bathroom. It was on those scary chases I discovered my love of adrenaline, and dinosaurs. The guitar artwork on the wall was created by my mother. I always thought it was beautiful. The photos and paintings inspired my love of travel, and I'd sit and gaze at them, creating adventures in my head and wondering what was just around the corner.

My bedroom. Well. Our bedroom. Until the day I moved out I shared with my sister. Look around the room and you'll see shelves of Beanie Babies and porcelain dolls. You'll realise where I developed my fearless nature. After all, who can sleep peacefully when a thousand eyes of lifelike dolls watch over you? I can. Under the bed will be stacks of clutter, old Shout magazines, and a collection of Gloria Estefan CDs. I never did get my own personal organisation under control. The photos on the door, of cousins and friends I once admired and was desperate to have them like me when I was an impressionable teen. There's no point trying to figure out who they are, we haven't spoken for decades.

The kitchen was the hub of the home, and until the extension (I pity you not ever seeing how tiny the flat once was, the rooms that jut out into the huge garden were added when I was 11 years old) there was a hatch to serve food directly into the dining room. Here is where mum would make all manner on Sicilian treats, and once in a while dad would serve up steak with a blue cheese, or redcurrant, sauce. Open the kitchen cupboards and you'll find the sweetie drawer, full of snacks and treats and only ever accessed with strict permission. Dad was the supplier of sweets.

The living room. The Lego in the corner stayed there from the day it was bought. I'd tell friends it was for my younger cousins, but even as a teen I'd sit and create crazy houses. As a family, we'd eat in the living room. Every Thursday night we'd go to the Tesco at Serpentine Green and buy a tub of Ben & Jerry's each, which we'd then consume while watching the latest episode of Friends. Family. Ice cream. Perfection.

The garden. The shed. Full of spiders, and adventure. Our cat, long since dead but his paw prints remain in the concrete, used to bring dead birds and mice to his crudely build outside shelter. My sister and our friends would build dens of stick and leaves, pick cherries and blueberries for mum to make jams and pies. The tree stumps behind the flats. I cried when those amazing trees were cut down. And the barbeque (with 1996 scratched in the concrete) for when we used to hold awesome parties with friends.

What else will fans want to know, I wonder.

The neighbours upstairs? Once home to a drug-addicted but talented guitar player, then a dear old lady, then a full-on mental prostitute who almost attacked my dad in one of her rages.

So all in all, my childhood home was a mixed bag, full of love, happy memories and a few scary ones. But I'm glad I could share it with you. Now I'm off, to do whatever it is famous people do.

What would your childhood home tell your adoring fans for if you find fame? Let us know in the comments below, or how about leaving a link to your blog?