ONCE a fortnight, my palms sweat, my breathing quickens and my hands start to shake.

It's not time for the dentist, my car's MOT or anything grisly like that - it's time for my piano lesson.

I must stress that these are voluntary lessons that I happily pay for and intend to continue - if my teacher will let me after reading this.

But still, if he ever cancels, the relief of a naughty school girl who has dodged a maths test floods through me like a sugar rush.

I have these lessons because I would like to be good, one day.

Throughout my years of playing trombone, trumpet, flute and saxophone (most embarrassingly the tambourine in a marching band) I often yearned to be a pianist.

So I taught myself the basics on a tiny keyboard, drove my family mad when we got a proper piano and grew more and more frustrated that I didn't have the technique to play well.

I spent about 15 years telling myself I had missed the boat, and should have started at four in order to be any good, then realised the time I'd spent moaning about it could have been better spent learning properly.

Besides, playing piano is quite cool these days; take Jamie Cullum, Elton John and Jules Holland, and who could forget World Superbikes champion Jamie Toseland cruising on to the stage at the BBC Sports Personality 2007, astride his roaring Honda before bashing out a boogie-woogie number on the grand piano?

Anyway, I took the plunge, and found a tutor.

My teacher, who is also a busker around York, is amazing.

When I heard the way he plays his piano on the city streets -my favourite was his rendition of Summertime in the pouring rain - I knew that if I was brave enough to ask anyone to teach me, it had to be him.

But sitting at the piano for my first lesson was terrifying. Like when the driving examiner scrutinises your every move from the passenger seat.

Luckily, he didn't mind when my hands trembled so much I could barely hit a right note.

He didn't even smirk when I told him that at home I could always play much better.

He simply nodded, explaining that many pupils suffer from nerves and that if all I wanted to do was play for pleasure, at home, then who cared if my hands shook when I played in public. In fact, he said, I didn't need to perform for anyone at all.

And he was right.

The way I look at it - once I got over my initial mortification - is that as long as I can learn something from the lesson, it is worthwhile.

If my hands shake or mess up, well, never mind.

As long as I'm shown how to do it right, and can put it into practice at home, then fair enough.

The hardest thing to master, however, is my pride.

It is the first time I have found music difficult. When I was younger and playing the trombone, nobody expected a girl to play such a big, brassy instrument, and the feeling I got when I blasted out the Johnny Briggs theme tune to shocked audiences was awesome.

But it is a lot harder learning as an adult - and embarrassing when you go wrong.

If I hadn't bought the piano myself I would have smashed plates, glasses and God knows what over it by now; it brings out temper tantrums I didn't know I was capable of.

The good thing though, is that determination comes with age.

I know that if I want to play Debussy's Clair De Lune without hitting every wrong note possible, I'll need to practise.

If my fingers are ever going to be strong and nimble enough to fly over the keys like my teacher's do, I need to do those damn Hanon, The Virtuoso Pianist exercises.

In the mean time, at least my neighbours are hard of hearing.