This fish bar has been here all my adult life, on the corner of Edinburgh’s Queensferry Road. As a teenager, in the short time I lived at my parents’ home, in the days before university, it was the place fish suppers came from, wrapped in brown paper, shiny with grease, the heady scent of warm newspaper filling the room. During the days when we lived abroad, it was there too, for holidays, adding delicious fat and salt and white flakey fish to cold, December evenings. It sold fried pizza too, and Irn Brew, sweet and almost painfully fizzy. The precious package was brought home, to the Victorian flat inherited from my grandmother. Here we ate from plates, carefully laid out in preparation. And the fish bar is still there, glowing like a Hopper painting, bathing the dark pavement in cosy light. I never go in anymore, but I am glad it is there, the eternal fish bar on the corner of Queensferry Road.