We only have room here for seven but if you contact Colin Montgomery he will email the other forty-three for ‘a consideration’

The Bridge of Cries
The bridge twixt the quirky, self-conscious hubbub of The Shore and the boulevard of bon vie that is Commercial Street is Leith’s rialto. Well sort of. The splendid crossings of Venice’s canal network, pregnant with history, afford one a fine view of long-limbed gondoliers silently cursing fat tourists. The bridge over the Water of Leith is more likely to reveal a panorama of swans choking on discarded Mitre Mouldmasters and three Jeromian jakeys on a door. The perfect place to break off any relationship by claiming you are heading off to sea for a spell as a stoker on the SS Gardyloo (it no longer sets sail to spew its foul cargo into the ocean but she won’t know that). And with a taxi rank and the bus stop nearby, timing a quick getaway will be simple.

In which our hero impersonates a police man and climbs the banana flats...

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Faux de Wishart
(best served cold)
Have your amorous juices ceased to flow? Is love off the boil and stewing like an old sock in a discarded hat? You need a Michelin-starred get out clause. And it comes in the shape of this rather gutless gastronomic two fingers. It’s simple. Call your beloved and bedazzle her with the prospect of sharing an evening being cooked for personally by one of Leith’s much admired culinary cadre – none other than Martin Wishart. When your soon-to-be-ex-partner turns up, introduce her to the ‘other’ Martin Wishart, an unemployed barber from Restalrig whose ragout of pot noodle is the talk of his own bedsit kitchen. She’ll be reduced to lachrymose angst faster than you can whip up a microwaveable burger. And her weepy jus should signal an end to the affair.

The Leith Police
De-nesteth Us
Your once cosy lovers’ nest is becoming itchy, scratchy and downright unbearable. It’s time to spread your wings. But why try to explain your waning passion in a mature and adult fashion? Not when you can pretend to have been recruited by the local constabulary for undercover operations which, such being the nature of deep deep deep cover, require you to Bourne-like divest yourself of any trappings of your ‘old life’. So it’s goodbye to that Leither passport and so long to emotional baggage. Of course, after the parting, you may wish to explain your occasional appearance in Leith’s drinking haunts as an uninterruptable meeting with your local grass. Or simply feign a German accent and ask the way to the Royal Yacht Britannia.

You are the Weakest Links
Ever seen Leith Athletic play on Leith Links? Give it a go. But wear protective clothing. Cannonball shooting is likely. As it was back in 1560 or so, when the French of Mary of Guise were sent packing with a few well-aimed shots from the Anglo-Scottish forces. Should you have your own ‘Mary’ whose ‘regency’ has run its course, give her the elbow with a trip to the Links. Tee it up as a bewitching meander. But at the grassy mounds where artillery rained death on the Gallic chancers, come over all funny. Start muttering in Franglais about siege engines and the finer points of court etiquette in 16th century France. If that doesn’t end it, pull up your sleeve to reveal a fake tattoo professing your love for giant poodles. She’ll get the picture pretty sharpish.

Take a Chance on Love (ending)
Years ago, men of ill-repute would skulk in dark corners of the Leith docks probably placing ruinous wagers on the time and place of industrial accidents. These days, you can gamble with glee in a brightly lit waterside casino. After all it’s only money eh? So it is with fading love – it’s only a few years of shared memories, passionate moments, tears and laughter, why not gamble it all on the turn of a roulette wheel? Get bedded in at the casino. Order a Martini. Phone the missus to tell her you’re putting your relationship up as a bet. She can even choose the game in which you’ll go for broke. Poker? Blackjack? Her call. Your partnership will undoubtedly fold.

Declare Yourself a Banana Republic
Your passion is fading fast. Yet you passionately want to end it all. Not literally. No roll in the hay is worth doing a swan dive for. If you are dead keen on a coup d’amour, then declare your independence by trying a bit of politics. But not the scurrilous sort oft practised by the legions of grubby chisellers in Westminster. Get revolutionary. Scale the Banana Flats with a beret and fake beard. Then declare yourself a political prisoner of love seeking emancipation by unfurling a bed sheet daubed with firebrand rhetoric. Like ‘Man was born free, but everywhere I go my bird chooses to follow’. Or the rather pithier ‘It’s over, you suffocating harpy’.

Any Port in a Storm
At the start of the last century the men of Leith were heroically moustached. Failure to sport one could result in social shame – or a good hanging. Around then a chap called Captain Webb took a dip and surfaced at a croissant stall on Calais Pier. That first cross-channel swim is to be the inspiration for your final bid for freedom. Get your Speedos on. Cover yourself in goose fat (or a bag of chips). Take a snap of yourself in said get-up on Portobello prom. Send it to your honey bunny with a fond farewell declaring your intention to become the first Leither to swim the globe. You will have to disappear forever. But it’s a small price to pay for freedom. Sweet sweet freedom.

Illustration: www.davidsutton.co.uk