Half a chicken, part 2

The French voice at the end of the phone threw my brain into reverse gear. Emergency lights flashed and cogs ground against each other as I jettisoned the vocabulary stashed under 'basic telephone Russian'. The 'basic telephone French' taking a holiday in a distant lobe was displeased at being summoned back at short notice, and pointedly took its time. Meanwhile, I could only utter inarticulate sounds.

I don't know what I had been expecting - but not a cocky sounding Frenchman without a trace of an accent. He claimed to have answered the ad, and claimed to be learning English. But meeting an imposter was out of the question. I decided to play along and draw him out a bit. 'How long have you been learning Russian?' There was a silence at the other end of the line.

'Franchement?'
'Oui.'
'Vingt-cinq ans.'

I couldn't believe it. The guy was taking the piss.

'Je suis russe' the French voice continued.

'What's your name then?' I flustered.

The reply - one of the most popular Russian boys names - reassured me somewhat. Maybe the guy really was Russian. The only way to find out was to start speaking Russian to him. But the basic telephone Russian had taken off in a huff, and I felt suddenly overcome with shyness. I still suffer from this inability to switch easily between languages.

Ten years on, the rest of the conversation escapes me. But I was sufficiently convinced to agree to meet him in the centre of Toulouse for a drink the next week. My flat mates thought this was a Very Bad Idea...