knowing where the conversation may lead.
  My office door swings open and Alan strides into the room with a satisfied air.
  'Do you know,' he says cheerily, 'I can't quite believe it, but I think I've developed quite an ear for Spanish.'
  'Really? What about Mallorcan?'
  'Oh, come on! I'm just trying to get to grips with Castilian Spanish first.'
  This is often the dilemma facing the foreigner moving to Mallorca. Do you learn mainland Castilian Spanish first, or the local Mallorcan dialect? We have opted for Castilian lessons to begin with and hope to pick up the local lingo as we go along. However most of the building vocabulary we have learnt is in Mallorcan because that is what our builders converse in most of the time.
  'So, tell me about your Spanish ear.'
  'Well, I've just had a great conversation with Stefan and the boys. You would have been impressed. Maybe I should think about jacking in those language classes?'
  Like an intransigent child, Alan has resisted all efforts by Paula, his seventy-year-old Spanish teacher, to get to grips with the language. Each week he returns dejectedly from her tiny flat in the town square with sheets of grammar exercises, which he examines with glazed eyes out on the patio late at night, glass of malt whisky in one hand and the inevitable puro , a fat cigar, in the other.
  I try not to smile. 'Since you're becoming so fluent, maybe you should increase your lessons with Paula. You know, move on to the subjunctive and more complex grammatical issues?'
  He pushes a fretful hand through his greying locks. 'Hm. Actually, I can't help thinking Paula's a bit past it.'
  'Past what exactly?'
  He draws up a swivel chair from the other side of the desk and sinks heavily into it. I notice that his tattered old shorts and brown legs are streaked with mud from the garden.
  'I mean she's nice enough but not exactly exciting to be with.'
  'I'm not sure if you're supposed to get excited about your Spanish teacher, are you?'
  He gives me a naughty grin. 'Well, if she was forty years younger, and forty pounds lighter, I might.'
  I give him a look of mock disapproval.
  'Anyway,' he argues, 'when are you going to start lessons?'
  'Look, I'd love to,' I say, a tad insincerely, 'But when I answered Paula's advert in the Majorca Daily Bulletin she only had one slot left. Anyway, your need is greater than mine.'
  'I can't think why,' Alan grumbles. 'You've only listened to a few Spanish tapes yourself.'
  'Well, at least I've progressed beyond si .'
  'I take it you mean sea as in el mar ?' He gives me a wink, stands up and peers out of the window. 'I'm a bit worried about the new irrigation channel Stefan's set up for me. The water's very slow. What do you think?'
  Stefan has spent hours with Alan running water irrigation pipes around the orange and lemon trees in our field. Like small boys, they smacked palms triumphantly when the first drops came through. They work well together despite the language barrier, Stefan in the role of project manager coordinating the works while Alan acts as general overseer.
  'Is there enough water in the safareig ?'
  He registers that I'm cockily using a Mallorcan word to fox him, but is not to be outwitted. He gives me a derisory look. 'Well, of course there is. I'd be a pretty poor gardener if I didn't think to check the water tank.'
  'Well then, I've no idea. You'll have to confer with Stefan.'
  'Indeed,' he sighs and plods off downstairs.
  The temperature has now risen to 40ËC. I have several e-mails waiting to be sent which is a good enough excuse to vacate my seat and brave popping into town to investigate HiBit, the local computer shop which has Internet access, and to buy some vegetables from the market. The ADSL installation, which we need for emailing,
  My office door swings open and Alan strides into the room with a satisfied air.
  'Do you know,' he says cheerily, 'I can't quite believe it, but I think I've developed quite an ear for Spanish.'
  'Really? What about Mallorcan?'
  'Oh, come on! I'm just trying to get to grips with Castilian Spanish first.'
  This is often the dilemma facing the foreigner moving to Mallorca. Do you learn mainland Castilian Spanish first, or the local Mallorcan dialect? We have opted for Castilian lessons to begin with and hope to pick up the local lingo as we go along. However most of the building vocabulary we have learnt is in Mallorcan because that is what our builders converse in most of the time.
  'So, tell me about your Spanish ear.'
  'Well, I've just had a great conversation with Stefan and the boys. You would have been impressed. Maybe I should think about jacking in those language classes?'
  Like an intransigent child, Alan has resisted all efforts by Paula, his seventy-year-old Spanish teacher, to get to grips with the language. Each week he returns dejectedly from her tiny flat in the town square with sheets of grammar exercises, which he examines with glazed eyes out on the patio late at night, glass of malt whisky in one hand and the inevitable puro , a fat cigar, in the other.
  I try not to smile. 'Since you're becoming so fluent, maybe you should increase your lessons with Paula. You know, move on to the subjunctive and more complex grammatical issues?'
  He pushes a fretful hand through his greying locks. 'Hm. Actually, I can't help thinking Paula's a bit past it.'
  'Past what exactly?'
  He draws up a swivel chair from the other side of the desk and sinks heavily into it. I notice that his tattered old shorts and brown legs are streaked with mud from the garden.
  'I mean she's nice enough but not exactly exciting to be with.'
  'I'm not sure if you're supposed to get excited about your Spanish teacher, are you?'
  He gives me a naughty grin. 'Well, if she was forty years younger, and forty pounds lighter, I might.'
  I give him a look of mock disapproval.
  'Anyway,' he argues, 'when are you going to start lessons?'
  'Look, I'd love to,' I say, a tad insincerely, 'But when I answered Paula's advert in the Majorca Daily Bulletin she only had one slot left. Anyway, your need is greater than mine.'
  'I can't think why,' Alan grumbles. 'You've only listened to a few Spanish tapes yourself.'
  'Well, at least I've progressed beyond si .'
  'I take it you mean sea as in el mar ?' He gives me a wink, stands up and peers out of the window. 'I'm a bit worried about the new irrigation channel Stefan's set up for me. The water's very slow. What do you think?'
  Stefan has spent hours with Alan running water irrigation pipes around the orange and lemon trees in our field. Like small boys, they smacked palms triumphantly when the first drops came through. They work well together despite the language barrier, Stefan in the role of project manager coordinating the works while Alan acts as general overseer.
  'Is there enough water in the safareig ?'
  He registers that I'm cockily using a Mallorcan word to fox him, but is not to be outwitted. He gives me a derisory look. 'Well, of course there is. I'd be a pretty poor gardener if I didn't think to check the water tank.'
  'Well then, I've no idea. You'll have to confer with Stefan.'
  'Indeed,' he sighs and plods off downstairs.
  The temperature has now risen to 40ËC. I have several e-mails waiting to be sent which is a good enough excuse to vacate my seat and brave popping into town to investigate HiBit, the local computer shop which has Internet access, and to buy some vegetables from the market. The ADSL installation, which we need for emailing,
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