I guess I'm just lucky. I fall down occasionally, this being Canada where we have ice for at least three months of the year, and usually I have to practically beat people off as they insist on dragging me to my feet before I am fully recombobulated.

The only people I remember who did not immediately rush up to grab me were two obviously terrified teenaged girls who found me sprawled in the snow in front of my own front door, having slipped off the stoop, landed on my arse, and displaced a lumbar disc. I managed to get to my feet but could not get back up on the stoop to go back inside to call an ambulance. One of the girls allowed me to coax her close enough to put my hand on her shoulder, so I could lift my foot and step up. The entire exchange felt like luring a deer with a salt lick.

French people, especially Parisians, are notoriously rude and dismissive of tourists, but when I tripped over a curbstone in front of Samaritain one day during the Christmas shopping rush, three women scooped me up off the pavement, brushed me thoroughly and checked me for broken bones. They then marched me to a nearby cafe and sat me down with a coffee and a piece of cake. Then they patted me on the shoulder and left. Yes, the French have style.