If I hadn’t fallen over I could be writing a novel in Paris with a crooked and nicotine darkened smile. I’d follow small dogs home to their owner, who would inevitably be Audrey Tatou, or a Brazilian counterpart, and cook them courgette and pea soup. They’d grimace at the way my head tilted when their dog scratched themselves on the floor; I’d laugh awkwardly, unaware that an imperfect smile was the thing that got me there.
