The phrase comes from driving, from days of horse-drawn carriages, when cutting the corner on a right hand turn was a risky bid for speed – the curb could tip your cart and slow you down far more than any properly executed turn might. In walking, the same risk isn’t there – straying from the sidewalk isn’t likely to tip you over. The word cut takes on more significance though. We pick a shorter path to cut time off of our daily commute, to cut to the chase, to chase and race our way through the city space. As we cut corners, we literally cut into the landscape, filing it away with our feet, like carving into a steak with a dull knife. Sidewalks are poured, but paths are chiselled – sawed away by the serrated edge that is the tread on our hurried shoes.