If ever you felt that time, and the attendant hammers of failing memory had, in its quest for perfection and modernity, somehow failed to preserve a collective memory of the packaging of 1980s provincial supermarket own brand packaging, then Leith has the stairwell for you.
Those who fail to follow these simplest of instructions are the unsung heroes of this account. I only wish the decor didn’t look like someone had left a Millionaire’s Shortbread out over winter.
With a font and colour evoking better times and fancy biscuits, and yet with the unspoken threat of a Jimmy Shand LP lying in wait upon the radiogram. North Merchiston.
With a stern notice about keeping the door closed; good thing they didn’t as otherwise the world would remain oblivious to what happens when you combine the burgundy of Datsun’s first delicious forays into the British car market with the colours of prescription mouthwash. Leith.
Like purgatory for a baker who sold short measures in this life, an endless transit through corridors of chocolate, cream and caramel while an endless succession of doors to Salvation swing softly shut with the soft implosion of a collapsing soufflé. Merchiston.
The Iliad level hubris of a tiled close made with 80s kitchen leftovers topped with Borstal beige. Like an avalanche of stracciatella hitting a nordwand of Custard Creams and leaving the air heavy with susurrus and dismay as the vanilla settles once more. North Merchiston.