In a world of boiled sweets, be a macaroon. West End.

The nails-down-blackboard-noise of pushing a dried up cheap marker into a bastard oil paint surface and watching the water based ink bead and puddle and doing it again and again until it dries and is legible. Off Leith Walk.

Looking at this one gains the impression there was once a lively and vibrant colour combination here before it was painted to look like it was about to trundle off a landing craft on D Day +1 and advance towards Caen. Polwarth.

You scream, I scream, we all scream for ice cream. But only in the limited number of flavours available at an 80s school sports day, doled out by a man who would now fail the requisite background checks. North Merchiston.

Clotted cream and toffee, but really, perhaps more about the unbridled encroachment of commerce upon the domestic space. Lothian Road.

But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? West End.

A return to the Fine Fare Stairwell of Memory, where engrams of generic brand cherry popsicles jostle with those of butterscotch Instant Whip, held permanently in both tension and symmetry by an unusual limeade. West End.

From a world of non ironic moustaches comes a dado rail the cool and covert blue of a Mirage over San Carlos Water, with dado and balusters the inexplicable burgundy and blue favoured by producers of light commercial vehicles during the golden age of bank robberies. Leith Walk.

A memento mori of past decor, the past as a foreign country where a child’s vanilla and strawberry ice cream wafer has been left out in the summer of 1976. North Merchiston.

In Stirling where the rather nice tiles are not the star of the show #ghostsign #scottishghostsign

Come to marvel at the audacity of the paint colour changing halfway up the stairwell, stay for the stairs themselves, like a mint cream fondant drawn upwards by some higher power for purposes mysterious and ineffable. Dalry.

When your bike compliments, but perhaps not matches, your hallway. Gorgie.

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.

Shadows and dark peculiars. Gorgie.

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.

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.

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.

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.