You know how it is: you learn a language at school (or at uni, in my case), you rarely visit the country and then one fine day you find yourself in a bar in Seville asking for two toilets (servicios) instead of two beers (cervezas).

Now whilst I enjoy making good-looking young barmen laugh, I actually prefer to have them laughing with me rather than at me. In that moment, I made a mental note to investigate refresher courses in Spanish to avoid further humiliation should I bump into, say, Gael Garcia Bernal. This goal would go on the same list as writing a novel and climbing Macchu Picchu (accompanied by llamas).

Exactly a year later, following a last-minute panic holiday decision, I am in a classroom in Barcelona with six other hopefuls: French gardener Yasmina, 28; French artist Florence, 25; Swedish students Stefan, 20, and Sandra, 21; the impossibly tall and blonde German tennis ace, Louisa, 19; and fellow Brit, Guy, 44, who has just moved to the Catalan capital with his family.

Whilst we all have different motives for doing so (Yasmina to find a boyfriend, Florence to work in a Spanish design company, Stefan to travel around South America, Sandra to find a job in a hotel, Louisa to add another string to her multi-talented bow, Guy to communicate with the locals, and me to impress Mexican actors), we all have one thing in common: we all want to improve our Spanish and we’re prepared to pay for it.

The last time I was in this situation I was 14 years younger and about the same amount of pounds lighter not to mention more interested in going out every night than studying. I spent three years learning Spanish (as a subsidiary subject to French) at Leeds University, including a term in Granada, and then nothing. What would it be like this time around?

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