HARRY Diamond, the acerbic former Herald reporter who became public relations boss at Glasgow City Council during the tumultuous 70s and 80s, had perhaps a jaundiced view of the city's Lord Provosts.

As he wrote in his autobiography: "People are made the city's First Citizen for a multiplicity of reasons: some to prevent others from getting the job, some to get them out of the political mainstream because they were a nuisance, and some because they were harmless and wouldn't offend anyone. Now and again someone is elected because he or she has personality or real ability - but that doesn't happen often."

Some Lord Provosts, although the role is more diplomatic than political, craved the headlines. Peter McCann, a prickly individual always spoke his mind irrespective of whether his views were popular or not. Michael Kelly, one of the more cerebral LPs, quickly learned to use the press to his advantage - so much so that he formed a successful public relations company after leaving the City Chambers, employing a trove of young women who grasped the concept of "work hard, play hard".

Pat Lally was more of a political operator, and his time as Lord Provost often seemed awkward for him. Alex Mosson was a natural glad-hander who put everyone at their ease.

But although the title of Lord Provost has been almost relentlessly held by men since its inception centuries ago, it has been the three women of more recent times who have appeared naturally gifted for the job. Susan Baird was younger, more attractive than the normal Labour cooncillor in a creased grey suit, and charmed everyone who met her. Liz Cameron buzzed around with constant activity, even welcoming foreign guests in Italian, which she had been studying.

Now Sadie Docherty, a mother, grandmother, and former housing officer, who only became a councillor seven years ago, is already showing a relaxed style of public persona half-way through her five-year term. The highs and lows could have crushed lesser souls. She went from the heart-breaking depths of the Clutha helicopter crash, to the highs of a Commonwealth Games seen around the world, and then the depths again with the Queen Street bin lorry crash - the site of which she sees daily in the view from her City Chambers office.

Amidst these peaks and troughs are the day-to-day jobs of welcoming the leaders of conferences to the city, opening exhibitions, visiting schools and community centres, and eating far too many formal dinners than are good for you.

"I've started going to Slimming World at eight in the morning on a Saturday which is the only free time I can be sure of," she says. "The second time I went the woman in charge said, 'We've got a famous person with us today.' 'Who?' I asked her. 'You!' she said. Someone had told her I was Lord Provost. But to me I was just a local going along to her local class." After all, Sadie is hardly likely to wear that heavy gold chain when she's getting weighed.

Yes, the gold chain. Worth a conservative £100,000, it is the chain, and not the Lord Provost, one suspects, which is the real reason for the council officer always being in attendance with the Provost. Last week I meet the Lord Provost at one of her more minor roles - hosting a series of coffee mornings in the LP's dining room where council staff could pay to have a cake with her for Comic Relief. Sadie stayed away from the cakes I noticed, but she was actually going to sit down to about half a dozen of such events that day so sponge-based temptation was never far away.

The chain, she says, is always a fascination for primary school children, and she should know as she visited all 150 or so in the city in the run-up to the Commonwealth Games. "The teachers' union," says Sadie, "printed a story from a teacher who said one of her pupils had written about 'the Lost Prophet' visiting the school." She laughs. "The Lost Prophet. I like that."

She continues: "I show them the names of the previous Lord Provosts on the chain and joke that there is no space for mine and get them to search for where my name can go. And if they are in the City Chambers I show them the lion's head carved into the staircase and tell them it's lucky to rub its nose. I don't know if it is, but the children love it."

More challenging has been the royal visits as the Lord Provost is also the Lord Lieutenant of Glasgow - the Queen's representative. It is one thing chatting amicably to a visitor to the city - questions about where are you from? what do you do? even where did you get those shoes? can trip off the tongue with practice, but do the same chatty questions apply when you meet the Queen? Says Sadie: "We have staff here who can tell you the protocol when you meet royalty, and then your mind goes blank when it actually happens. But the Queen is a lovely woman who wants to put you at your ease. And Prince Phillip has a great sense of humour."

But it is meeting ordinary, and extraordinary, citizens in Glasgow, which Sadie says she enjoys, and you do believe her. People who volunteer to run many services and charities in the city that are often unheard of who meet the LP and tell her what they do. It can be humbling hearing of the great charitable work in the city that goes unrecorded.

Tea finished and cups cleared, Sadie waits for the next group of council workers who have made their charitable contribution to have tea with the Lord Provost. I stop at the lion's head on the way out and rub its nose. After all, the Lord Provost told me to.