I shake my head, softly, as I watch the man do more squat-thrusts in front of the now-terrified students, before he leaps up and shouts, 'THERE'S NO POPE IN THE VATICAN! THERE'S NO POPE IN THE VATICAN!'

Once again, he's inches from their faces, and the students glance nervously at each other, muttering something under their breath.

Worry not, my French friends, I think. Help is at hand.

But then I catch the tail end of what they're saying. And then I break out in a sweat. Because I've realised something awful. These students are not French. They're Italian.

I look through the window of the cafe, and see Rich swing the toilet door open and stride through the room, full of confidence and swagger. His eyes are fixed upon the students and there's a smile on his face.

'Wait!' I want to shout. 'Wait a second!'

But I can't shout that. And I can't catch his eye. Rich is a man on a mission. A heroic mission, to save the Italians he mistakenly thinks are French.

'THERE'S NO POPE IN THE VATICAN!' shouts the man, even louder this time. The students try to make their move.

And then Rich pushes the door open, hard. It swings and clatters against the wall. Everyone turns and looks at him. Rich has inadvertently blocked their exit. He opens his arms and grins an enormous grin.

'BONJOUR!' he shouts. 'MES AMIS! JE VOUDRAIS VOUS INVITER A BOIRE AVEC MOI ET MON AMI POUR ECHAPPER A LA FOLIE!'

The students look at him with sheer terror in their eyes.

'THERE'S NO POPE IN THE VATICAN!' shouts the madman behind them, trying to regain their attentions. But Rich is having none of it.

'VENEZ AVEC MOI MAINTENANT!' he yells. 'NOUS IRONS BIEN, VOUS ET MOI!'

For a moment, I think the Italians are going to cry.

Who are these people?, they seem to be thinking. What harm do they mean us?

Rich has stopped yelling. His smile falls. This hasn't worked as well as he'd hoped. The madman returns to his squat-thrusts.

'Rich,' I half-whisper. 'Rich!'

The Italians turn their stunned gaze to me. Clearly, they think I'm now about to join in too, possibly with a few star jumps, or a new theory about the Pope.

'They're Italian, Rich!'

'Oh,' says Rich, and he turns to face them once more. 'Je suis desolee.'

'Who's gonna get me a drink?' shouts the madman, inches from Rich.

The Italians smile politely and sneak off.

Rich and I spend ninety minutes learning that there's no such thing as a free lunch.

PUNCTUALITY

I was sitting on my own in a stranger's living room at a quarter past eight at night, with a small bowl of cashews on my lap, wishing I was somewhere else.