The last time I sat on a piano stool my feet didn't reach the ground beneath me. I loved the piano, but even as a child whose age was still in single digits, I rebelled at the idea of piano exams. I thought learning music should be fun. My teacher didn't and we quickly went our separate ways. That was more than 30 years ago and the only keyboards I've played on in the meantime have letters.

Since the beginning of September all this has changed. I managed to find a teacher willing to take on an adult beginner and nervously turned up to my first lesson feeling that perhaps I should have signed up for a course in underwater basket weaving instead.

Actually I lie. I didn't turn up for my first lesson. I was so engrossed in something that I completely I forgot about it until my teacher phoned to know why I hadn't arrived. I was mortified, but she was the essence of understanding and comforted me by saying that she has to "mind" her adult students much more than her young pupils because kids have mums and dads to keep them on track while adults have all sorts of things vying for attention in their lives. I'd like to be able to say that everything I'd learnt as a whippersnapper came flooding back the moment my fingers touched the piano.

But it's not true. I did remember some things, but my brain is still in a complete fuzz over others. The treble clef and I are on fairly friendly terms now, but the bass clef is still a dark and scary place and I have to count out loud to keep myself in time. Getting the right fingers on the right notes is also proving a challenge for someone who types fast but without regard for the correct fingering.

The upside of this painful process is a growing sense of achievement. It might only be lesson seven, but getting both hands playing simultaneously is magic. My rendition of Three Blind Mice may not yet be good enough for a debut recital at the NCH, but it's coming on and hopefully I will eventually reach my goal which is to be able to play a piece of Bach from one end to the other.