Speak uneasy

Whenever you tell somebody that you've lived in Spain for 30 years, they will invariably respond in one of two ways: with a vaguely humorous reply like "oh, you must quite like it here then" or by saying something like "so, you must be able to speak the language really well?" That last one is a bit tricky to answer.

The truth is if someone heard me babbling on in a music studio about F# minors and plectrums and stuff they'd think I was a good Spanish speaker. However, there are huge lagoons in my overall knowledge - car parts, types of fish in restaurants, flowers and trees for example. Anyone who witnessed me stuttering and stammering around those topics would think I'd just arrived for a city break. So, no, I don't speak Spanish really well but you can't say that to people because then they'll think you've just come here to sit in the sun and watch endless repeats of Only Fools and Horses. It's complicated.

Another telltale sign of linguistic inadequacy is the frequency of the ridiculous misunderstandings my dreadful pronunciation has got me into over the years. When I had a pub, there were at least five occasions when I would tell somebody about it and they would cock their head to one side in the manner of a puzzled puppy and ask how a foreigner comes to own an ironmonger's in a new country. 'Cervecería' and 'ferretería' might end in the same three syllables but, come on, the similarities should end right there for anyone with half-decent Spanish.

Anyway, you'll be pleased to hear that last week I managed to beat my personal best in terms of language folly. Having bumped into an old acquaintance in Malaga, I remembered that the last time I saw him, he'd said that he was going to start a new job in Benalmádena, so I asked him for an update.

He began to explain how they'd opened a new ceramics studio on the outskirts of town recently and that there was a series of vintage video projections planned for next month which all struck me as a bit of a strange response for a bus driver. Then, very slowly, it became apparent that he was actually offering an update on his sister's artistic career. What had left my lips as "¿Qué tal en Benalmadena?" had hit his ear drums as "¿Qué tal tu hermana?", which, let's be honest, isn't even close. I didn't have the heart to stop him in full flow but it's good to know María's doing well and a chat about the state of public transport down the coast will have to wait for another day.

Now I really wish I'd filmed the whole incident so that next time someone says "Thirty years? Wow! You must speak Spanish really well", I could just raise my eyebrows and send them a link to YouTube.

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