What was the first word or sentence you learned when you started learning French?

For most of us I suspect it was that old favourite "Ou est la plume de ma tante?". I could never figure out why we should be so interested in the possible whereabouts of my aunt's pen but then what turns you on, turns you on, I suppose.

I have discovered that when you start to learn English in the Canary Islands you are obviously thought to have a morbid interest in the colour of your friend's house. Students learn to ask very early on "Do you live in a red house?". Quite what punishment awaits you if the answer turns out to be "No" I have not yet discovered. But bearing in mind the Spanish invented the Inquisition I am sure it is severe.

When I took my first faltering steps in Spanish, some years ago now I must admit, I was faced with the momentous job of informing the world that "Lo tengo un perro" - I have a dog. The fact this was a distinctly untrue statement had no bearing on my wish to speak correctly in another language and I persisted in starting all my somewhat short conversations with this little gem of information.

As I progressed in the language, I managed to leave my little dog behind and move on to better things. But in my heart I treasured this phrase as the first sign of my love for a foreign language. In those far-off days I never expected to have any use for another tongue, as foreign travel was the prerogative of the rich and the discomfort of charter flights was still mercifully unknown. However, my faith in the phrase concerning my non-existent small dog was vindicated during my recent holiday when I stayed with friends in Tenerife.

We had been invited out to dinner in a splendid restaurant with a menu the size of a bed sheet. On taking friendly advice I allowed myself to be persuaded to order a portion of suckling pig which, I was given to understand, was cooked in a special local way to render it succulent beyond the bounds of normal human greed.

When my meal arrived I thought a waiter would come to carve what looked like a week's total dinner requirements for a hungry family of four. But my friends assured me that the very large chunk of pig was my dinner, to be consumed without any help. (If this was a suckling pig I am glad I did not go the whole hog!)

Having ascertained dinner was always a very lengthy affair in Tenerife (hardly surprising given the size of the portions!), I started my delicate task of dismembering my piglet. Sometime later I surfaced from the debris of the luscious crackling. My stomach told me I had done quite well but when I looked at my plate I was forced to consider how I had spent the last hour chewing for England. I realised I would certainly not have won a gold medal as there seemed to be almost as much on the dish as when I had started.

By now you are no doubt wondering where all this was leading. It was leading to a triumph for education over sheer greed. I amazed my host by summoning the waiter and indicating by some elaborate mime that I would like the rest of the week's supply of meat to be wrapped up for me to take away with me - in other words "doggy-bag time".

But, while my mime failed, I suddenly realised I now had a use for my long ignored phrase. I said to the waiter, in my best Spanish accent, "Lo tengo un perro!" - and what is more he understood. He smiled charmingly and took my plate away and came back with a very large doggy bag.

I am now the best friend of a very large dog belonging to my friends in Tenerife. Who said education was a waste of time?