A centre in terminal decline brings back memories of the messages


The “blue” car park has been pulverised. That’s a shame. It was one of my favourites. The view out over the Forth was just lovely, Oh, I hear you say, just one favourite car park? There are other contenders? Yes, now that you mention it, there are.
Waitrose, Comely Bank. Careering up that steep, slightly scary slope brings back happy memories for me.
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Hide AdA very long time ago, this was a Safeway, an American company determined to bring the sophistication of the US food-buying experience to a country that still thought string bags were essential for carrying potatoes, despite the fact that tatties occasionally fell through the holes. Not a problem. After all, that’s why you had children. Tattie catching.
Safeway was the American contender in the supermarket space race. As big as a Nasa rocket, as shiny as an astronaut’s smile. Oh, there were British attempts. We had Fine Fare. Dad would park the Morris Minor outside the front door, because you could do that in those days, then we’d go in and do “the big shop” under the energetic direction of my list-wielding mother.
The kids were sent out into the gloomy interior foraging for baked beans. Now and then, a miserable shop assistant drifted past, tightly buttoned into nylon overalls. If two of them came too close I swear you could hear the crack of the static charge. It was the only sound they made. Cheerful chat was not a required skill.
Our choices were limited. White bread, unless you were some sort of health freak, in which case it was brown. Cheese was cheddar, Dairylee triangles for the kids. Soup – Cream of Tomato. Occasionally, we got Oxtail. It’s a wee tin. An ox is a muckle great beast. To this day I wonder what they do with the rest of the animal.
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Hide AdThe fruit choice was straightforward. Red apples, or Granny Smiths. Oranges, and bananas to go brown in the fruit bowl. Grapes if someone wasn’t well.
And then came Safeway. One of them had a car park on the roof. This was the future. In no time at all the engine of our little Morris Minor was straining up that ramp. Inside was so brilliantly bright we all blinked. The staff offered to help.
On the shelves were wonders from America. Miracle Whip. Cheese out of a tube. And something called “dip”, which you had to make up out of a packet and my mum caused a ruckus when she served it at a Tupperware party. Possibly because she really did serve it with “chips”, as specified on the instructions. Some things defy Transatlantic translation. Lets face it, she was a bit of trailblazer there. Bet Nigella serves dips ‘n’ chips these days.
Should you take a stroll down to see the Terminal’s decline, pop inside. One of the empty units has been taken over by a lovely bunch of volunteers, and they've set up a mini-museum of life and shopping in Leith. It’s got a brilliant name – Away for the Messages, Now there’s phrase I’m guessing we’d have to translate back to our American friends.