Passing a simple shop front brimming with coconuts in Brazil today, I used my rudimentary Portuguese to ask for some coconut water. The woman said yes, handed me some toilet paper and directed me to the back of the store. We stared at each other for a moment, until a friend realised that instead of saying “I’d like a coconut water please” (eu gostaria de um coco de aqua por favor”, I’d just asked for “cocõ” which in Brazil means “poo poo”. I’d stood there and asked the woman for a poo poo. Please. Bless her for giving me the paper.

That little circumflex can make all the difference. Over here bread is “pão” but penis is “pau”. Hardly any difference, but you can imagine the problems I’ve had in restaurants. Despite the fact I had casual Portuguese lessons for over a year I have to admit I have no natural propensity for it and little opportunity to use it. It’s like the first time I performed ‘The Girl from Ipanema’ in Portuguese – instead of saying “sozinha” meaning “alone”, I said “galinha” meaning “chicken” – so I actually sang “oh, why I am a chicken?”.

I realise I’ve spent most of my life well within my comfort zone doing only the things I think I am good at and avoiding the rest. Some things, like wallpapering and the hula-hoop, are best left to other people. So for me, tackling Portuguese has been a great leap forward into a sobering world of self-induced humiliation. My faltering attempts to use it usually elicit strained looks from the locals, who I am sure, would prefer me to either just speak in English or leave them alone. Still, the rewards are there. I still get a kick out of anyone understanding my most basic of requests and at least I’ll never be stuck for a toilet in Brazil.