Day Four

DAY FOUR

My first day of Spanish lessons, and I scarcely cover myself in glory. In my test beforehand I can scarcely remember the present tense, no matter anything else, and when my teacher asks me things I can barely remember my own name.



I’m having two hours of classes a day on my own, and during those hours I don’t speak or hear a word of English, which I’m sure is the best way to learn. However, it’s knackering and I’m distressed by how much my brain has degenerated since I did languages at school. I don’t remember being this bad at things.

In fact, my mind seems to have gone completely blank, even on things that don’t involve language. My teacher asks me to describe a typical English myth, and all of our rich legendary history, from King Arthur to the Druids, flies out the window.

Instead, I find myself irresistibly drawn to the “Folk of the Faraway Tree”, a terrible book by Enid Blyton that I was very fond of as a kid. I haltingly explain to my teacher that in England we believe that trees can talk. I’m sure she’s been dining out on that one for the rest of the week.

Daisy is loving Mexico (well, loving being with us all the time, which to her is the same thing). She gets her first bath today, in an orange plastic basin we bought from the local supermarket, and thoroughly enjoys it.



A local woman seems terribly concerned that someone might put the Evil Eye on Daisy, because she is so perfect. She (the woman, not Daisy) is wearing bits of thread in order to counter the bad luck that would ensue if someone looked at Daisy and was jealous.

Someone also suggested that we went to an indigenous healer who would put oil on Daisy’s nose to protect her from the dew that comes down from the mountains. We have done neither of these things, which probably makes us terribly neglectful parents.

It doesn’t matter where you go, someone always has an opinion on your child rearing strategy and how you are doing it wrong. In England we were variously told that we should put Daisy down in the garden to scream, and shouldn’t allow her to sleep in our bed (she doesn’t anymore, actually, since she has got used to her nifty Samsonite travel cot). We were also told that we should be feeding her formula milk, putting her in a pram instead of a sling, and getting her into a routine at six weeks.

I’ve been told to feed her hourly, four hourly, three hourly, and whenever she cried. If I listened to everyone’s advice and tried to take it I would be a nervous wreck. I guess the Evil Eye stuff isn’t really any more bonkers than some of the things I heard at home, and it is certainly easier to ignore.