I can talk for a long time only when it’s about something boring.—Lydia Davis. Years ago I was rushing to work on a rainy day. I was in the first few weeks of a new job. I wasn’t used to having more money than just enough to scrape through, so on pay day I’d gone out and bought some new sneakers. They were green Onitsuka Tigers. As I rushed along in my Tigers I suddenly slipped on the wet paving stones and both my legs shot out in front of me and I cannonballed backwards onto my arse. I’d fallen over loads of times before so I thought this was just one of those times. I picked myself up and continued striding along professionally. A few metres up the road I fucking fell over again. This one was more dramatic – I went sideways and onto my knees, with my bag sprawling and stuff falling out of it across the wet stones. This time someone stopped and helped me get up. I managed to walk another ten minutes down the road without falling over, but right outside the building where I worked, one of my feet skated out dramatically sideways and I literally strained my groin. At this point I was angry. I went into my new job and told everyone all about it. ‘It’s these shoes,’ I said. I spent all day brooding and then after work I took the sneakers back into the shop where I’d bought them. ‘I have a problem,’ I said to the sales assistant. ‘These shoes keep making me fall over.’ After a stilted exchange it became clear she couldn’t help me, so I just went away again with the Onitsuka Tigers and proceeded to fall over in them whenever it rained.