Pure exhilaration!

I just got off the back of a motorbike. I've only ever been on one once before and that was about sixteen years ago. I've always had a thing for speed. Travelling at speed that is, not actual speed. In fact my first boss Simon once said to me, "Nikki, please promise me you'll never do speed." When I asked him why, he replied, "Because normal people take speed to be like you; I don't know what would happen if you took it." I'm sure he was right, so I never did.

Travelling at speed though - definitely a sucker for that one. I raced powerboats as a teenager before I ever learned to drive a car. Small boats with an outboard motor, but they did about 65 miles an hour on the water and I was 5th in the British Championships in my class when I was 16.

I remember my driving instructor Bernard. If I so much as drove a couple of miles an hour above the speed limit he would remind me, "You're not in your boat now Nicola." I know he was right, but at least in a car I always feel safe. I know I'm not, but it's not the same as racing along in a powerboat or on the back of a motorbike.

Wow. I thought the two cups of coffee I had this morning gave me a buzz but it's nothing compared to this. I guess I had to trust the policeman I went with - if you can't trust a policeman who can you trust? I felt safe and secure. Perhaps because he's a big guy and I could hide behind him. It was only when he opened it up on the straight that I thought to myself "Oh crap, I forgot to pray before I got on."

I try and drive at the speed limit these days. With nine points a person needs to. It was totally outside of my comfort zone to be on the back of a bike with someone else in control, but that's what my whole life seems to be about lately - pushing the boundaries, changing my thinking, doing new things. Agreeing to go on a bike ride seemed appropriate under the circumstances.

Why is it that the ones you don't want to hear from call?

I heard from my ex-boyfriend yesterday. The one that I finished with four months ago. Why is it always that the ones that you don't want to hear from are the ones that call? Take my last internet date. It was bad enough to put me off online dating for the foreseeable future.

He had a great profile. We shared loads of common interests, he seemed bright and funny and interesting. We talked on the phone and he had a really sexy voice and we chatted easily considering we were two almost-complete-strangers. In his photo he looked gorgeous; really attractive and a snazzy dresser. In his profile he described himself as athletic and toned and said that his friends call him metrosexual, which to me means 'looks that good you think he's probably gay' because we all know gay men are, sadly for the girls, far better at dressing and grooming than the straight ones.

I was excited about our date. I waited for him nervously outside Borders in new clothes, hoping he'd like me and then he turned up. I could see a slight resemblance between him and the guy in the photograph, but it was like the one in the photo was the younger, slimmer and better looking version of the man standing in front of me. Trade 'athletic and toned' for 'stocky and pot bellied'. Trade 'metrosexual' for 'nice suit jacket over a jumper' and 'too much aftershave'. I couldn't have been more disappointed if you'd told me that Barcelona had just fallen off the map or that chocolate had never been invented.

Nikki, Nikki, only ever meet them for coffee on a first date. Then you can make a quick exit if it all goes horribly wrong. Instead I had to spend five hours with this guy when I could have gone home from the first moment. It soon became clear that he was a bit of a bore on top of everything else, although to be honest if I'd fancied him I have to admit I probably would have overlooked that.

So, I was polite, but not too friendly. I definitely didn't send any signals as it became clear to me over the evening that not only did I not fancy him but actually I found him kind of repulsive. So of course he calls. I was so stunned I didn't even know what to say when he asked me out again. I wasn't prepared. I was sure that he must have picked up my vibe that there was no way he was ever going to get a shag out of me, but no. I put him off and when he called again the next day had to explain that I just didn't feel a spark. It was my nice way of saying what I've just said here.

You see, I don't like being mean to them. I've got girlfriends that are fantastic at it. I'm not adverse to discreetly turning my back on them in a pub to try and get rid of them, but all out rude? I can't do it. I love Lily Allen's take on this:

"Can't knock em out, can't walk away,
Try desperately to think of the politest way to say,
Just get out my face, just leave me alone,
And no you can't have my number,
"Why?"
Because I've lost my phone. "

My friend Nic, when seeing me being chatted up recently by a man I clearly wasn't keen on simply grabbed him by the shoulders, turned him around and forcefully pushed him away. I admire that, I do. I'd even love to be able to do it but it's like dogs. I don't like them but when the vet that I work for on a Thursday (ex-internet date turned book keeping job - see I told you it was legit) said I'd be the perfect person to put down greyhounds for him I had to explain I couldn't do it. I might not like them but neither do I want to kick them while they're down.

Even when I'm provoked I still don't want to be horrible to them. With the internet date I didn't comment on how he'd mis-sold himself. I even managed to not laugh hysterically when he told me he was sure he'd detected signals from me. Up yourself much mate? I got rid of the ex-boyfriend yesterday as nicely as I could too even while I was rolling my eyes at how he assured me he had truly loved me even if he hadn't always shown it in the right way.

Maybe it would do me good to kill a few greyhounds after all...

God grant me patience

This is difficult. I am not, by nature, a patient person. I've been working on it for a long time now and over the years have got better. My road rage has improved and I only now spit out *wanker* when I'm driving somewhere and I'm late, which almost never happens. So...

Patience is one of my new year's resolutions. I have five of them. I developed them with my friend Ian one night when we were a little wasted. They are: Open, Breathe, Trust, Let Go and Patience. In our slightly inebriated state they seemed full of wisdom. "Wow, man, all we've got to do this year is those five things and we'll be fine. Quick, get a pen, we both have to write them down and read them daily."

I find it a little disturbing that I am so wise when slightly off my head - tequila episode aside. Everything that I'm doing right now is shifting and I am having to be Open to all eventualities, remembering to Breathe through the changes, Trusting that everything's going to turn out fine, Letting Go of any outcome and the most difficult thing of all for me to achieve - having Patience in waiting for that outcome.

I've known for a few weeks that big changes are occurring in my life. At first they were all internal events, now outwardly things are moving too. My work is changing; I'm being offered new work and money from my old work is being modified too. But there are a few life situations where I'm still waiting to see what happens, mainly with him and hearing from agents about my writing, and the virtue that I would most love to have - patience - is in short supply around here.

I can't buy it for myself. I can't pay anyone else to do it for me. I can't read up about it either online or in any one of my fabulous books and learn it. I can't even hang around people that have it in the hope that I'll suck some up. All of my usual methods of getting things done are not going to help me become a more patient person. I sit here either drumming on the desk or at my keyboard, pacing the floors or stomping on a long walk around the village. I'm even irritating myself and you know, it's bad when you get like that.

I'll let myself off the hook eventually; I'll channel this energy in a new direction and it'll be great. Until then, I have to wait. Open, Breathe, Trust, Let Go and Patience. Man it's so fucking hard!

Tequila is evil

I'm not a person that needs much help in removing my inhibitions, which is precisely why I should never have drunk that much tequila on Friday night. I don't drink much these days. I got out of the habit of my nightly large glass of red wine and I hate being hungover, so I tend to not bother. However, two weeks ago I got drunk on tequila, had a fabulous time and as long as I didn't put my head upside down and try and stand up again was after-effect-free the following day.

I decided to repeat the experience and I'm not sure where I went wrong. Maybe because last time we shared a bottle between four of us and this time it was between three of us. All I know is I'm going to have a great deal of trouble looking my best friend's husband in the face ever again. I'm so embarrassed I can't even explain why. There are things one should never share with another living person but for some reason this boundary doesn't exist between my best friend and me but I never expected it to extend to her husband! I know he's happy, not just for Friday but for life as he can now tease me stupid everytime I see him. I must plot some way to get my own back and regain my dignity.

When I wrote about speaking my truth I meant in writing and in life, but I definitely meant to bare all verbally and not physically. Instead this week I took a communal shower for the first time in my life - something I thought I would never do - and, well, gave my best friend's husband too much visual information.

I'm not sure I'll ever drink again. Or perhaps I'll just never drink at their house again. Perhaps I'll go to yoga this week and wait until all of the other women have finished showering before taking mine. I'd hate to gain a taste for exhibitionism at this point in my life. It seems that having chosen not to play my life by the rules for the first time that I have shifted all of my boundaries. By getting on very well with one woman's husband I seem to have opened the floodgates for sex talk with all of my friends' husbands. i spent a good half an hour today debating with another friend's husband why, when men are often homophobic or terrified of the idea of being near another man's erection that they are happy to all be erect when together at a lap dancing club. The talk is fine, as long as my friends don't mind, but as for the tequila-induced over-share I experienced on Friday, it's probably in my best interests to never repeat it. Not because the best friend minds. I think she enjoyed it as much as her husband did but I'm deleting all incriminating evidence so that I can't be tempted again.

Think I'm in trouble

I don't mean the other trouble; the man trouble. Admittedly, I'm still in trouble there, especially, it seems, with my mother. But I refer to physical trouble. I'm going Ceroc dancing in about an hour and I'm not sure I will be able to manage it. My sickeningly fit friend Ian has been pestering me to go to Bikram Yoga with him for months and yesterday I finally caved.

I didn't feel too bad when I woke up. I could feel it a little in my shoulders and my calves, but overall thought I'd got away with it. Unfortunately for me I think now that it's like one of those hangovers that you don't have first thing but that come and bite you in the arse a bit later in the day. How on earth am I going to spend the evening with either or both of my arms above my head?

Having said that, it might make me a glutton for punishment, but I'm going again next Tuesday. I like yoga. I first did it about six years ago but after my ill-thought-out move back to the Midlands in 2003 I've not found a class that I liked until now. Bikram is the 'hot' yoga. This refers not to sexy but done in a warm room and trust me, there was nothing sexy about me after 90 minutes in sopping wet clothes, my hair straggled about my beetroot-red face.

Yoga is good. I have to be honest, other than dancing I hate aerobic exercise. I despise the gym. I don't think I'd mind it so much if there weren't other people in there but even so exercising on the spot is so joyless. As for aerobics classes - forget it. The only bouncing around I like to do is the horizontal kind. Yoga is perfect. It is a really good workout and makes you feel strong in mind and body but I don't need to wear a very ugly sports bra to take part.

I was amazed how much I remembered after such a long break actually. Only now I'm paying for it. Every vertebra in my back aches and my shoulders feel like I've been strung up with my arms twisted behind my back like the torture featured in 'Waking the Dead' last week. Wish me luck.

I'm also a little freaked out by how much my life is being mirrored by the episodes of Sex and The City that I'm recording on my oh-so-loved Sky + box. Today Carrie went to San Francisco to promote her new book and plans to shag Mr Big, only he's read her book and wants to discuss the intimate revelations that she made about her feelings about him rather than have sex.

My book is with a few agents, not a publisher, and my book tour is still a distant dream. So that's not the similarity. I'm not sure my current lover qualifies as a Mr Big and the only place I write about him properly is in my journal for, well, all kinds of reasons. But I am struggling with the issue of what to say and what not to say, what I can reveal and what I can't reveal, in case 'he' reads it, in case my mother reads it, in case my father does. I'm getting better, to be fair. I used to worry about what everyone would think - even total strangers. I don't worry about that so much. I know most of my friends like my writing, but even if they don't I'm past caring as long as I think it's of good quality.

I'd love an agent who likes what I've got to say and how I say it and soon after getting one of those I'd predictably like a publisher that feels the same way, but outside of that I'm still a little hung up on what those closest to me will think. It's an impossible situation. As a writer all of life is grist for the mill but with many topics I still fear revealing too much of myself; my feelings, my vulnerability.

Unlike Carrie, I'm not in a situation where I'm simply trying to get laid and as I have, in the past, laid out my hurts, I've ended up with my ex apologising rather than shagging me all night. But I do worry about the consequences of putting myself out there and saying what I feel and think and do. I'm sure we've all learned from the Abby Lee experience that blogs are not entirely anonymous. I decided to use my name in mine precisely to get over these fears. I will, given time.

My crazy family

I had such a marvellous family day yesterday. After escorting my six-year-old daughter Kiera to her first dance exams I came home to cook a roast dinner for eight. My Dad came with my stepmum and I'd invited the 'other' part of my family, namely my seventeen-year-old stepson Ben, his Mum Sam, his stepdad Chris and Sam and Chris's little boy Dylan.

I know most people think it's weird that my ex-husband's first wife Sam and I are such good friends. There was a time when I found it weird too; when it was all new to us after years of ignoring and hating one another. But I realised yesterday, watching my Dad extend his affection for Sam by teasing her mercilessly and aggressively about Dylan still sleeping in her bed, how normal and familiar we all are to each other now.

There was a time when I thought that my life would only ever be okay if Sam were to fall off the face of the earth and never come back. I forget that when we're together. We don't have family get togethers for the kids' sake or because we're being politically correct as a stepfamily. That is how the get togethers started seven years ago, but now we do it because it's the only right and natural thing to do. Watching my Dad communicate in the only way that he knows how as he does with my sister and me and seeing Sam retaliate as I do; by taking the piss right back, she almost felt like a sister.

It was the book that did it. We had managed to become friends before, but writing Back and Forth and having to share our stories, the lows that Sam went to for her drug addiction, the times that I excluded her from her son's life, has brought a closeness that I would never have believed possible. Sam's son Ben has been my family for eleven years now. My familial relationship with his mother is more recent, but no less strong.

Speak only the truth

Must. Speak. My. Truth. Or write it. Or express it any way that is necessary! Such a marvellously easy sounding spiritual truth that can range from slightly difficult to downright impossible in practice.

A friend reminded me of David Icke yesterday. Yikes! Talk about nearly giving me a coronary. I'm aware I might have some things to write about that might be uncomfortable for me, or my family, or my friends. I even know that I might have to write some confrontational ideas that will challenge even people totally unknown to me. But to David Icke's level? Big deep breath. I am so not ready for that.

Don't get me wrong; I know already that I am highly opinionated and that some of my opinions are unpopular. Take Tuesday and shopping with my very slightly younger sister Lisa. I told her that I'd seen a teenage girl wearing a pair of jeans the day before with a Playboy logo on them. Lisa doesn't like them because, apparently, the Playboy logo is only worn by Chavs. I told her that if anyone ever buys my daughter any item with a Playboy logo on it I'll take her out in the garden and we can burn it together. Extreme? Who knows? It's perfectly logical to me that we really shouldn't be teaching little girls or young women how to be lap dancers or porn stars, but my peers often don't seem to notice these things as I do. Or they think that I make too much out of it. Whatever.

I'm currently hoping that I can bang on about how our society and our government undermine breastfeeding to the detriment of the health of our children, how I despise the over-medicalisation of the process of birth, why I home educated my daughter, why Nuts magazine has got to go and say that we need to see more pictures of naked men around the place because women are too visually stimulated! All of this I am prepared to say and more. It's the finding out if I've got to go as far as David Icke that's fucking terrifying. Gulp.

It's quite a time

I knew 2007 was always destined to be totally different to 2006 but even I'm amazed at what's happened already in the two weeks since the New Year's celebrations.

Fear and judgement are everywhere and we're all fighting against it. I think we're getting rid of old stuff so that we can move on and are prepared. I'm being judged by my Mom about the man that I'm seeing. My Dad was unfaithful so there's a whole load of projection going on that I'm having to distance myself from in order to live my own life. My friend Carole convinced herself she had cancer last week. She has a bad throat for sure, but a huge fear of dying almost overtook her. My other friend Ian went back to work to have panic attacks - fear again.

I'm scared of all kinds of things but mostly I'm frightened of falling asleep again like so many people are and not being awake to all the wonderfulness that can be found in extreme change. I'm excited. I can feel the shifts happening around us and I know that 2007 is going to be a huge year for me. It's time for us all to stop using our minds to create negativity and bad experiences in our lives and instead, harness that incredible power to create the lives that we truly want and deserve.

I'm going to try my hardest to do that every single day, which is why I'm writing it down, to help me remember.

Seeing into the future

I read Mr Christmas to four-year-old Dylan last night. He's the son of my friends Sam and Chris. Well, I say friends - it's more complicated than that. Sam was married to my ex-husband Roger before I was. They had a son Ben together, whom I raised from 1996 to 2005 because Sam used to have a drug problem.

So there I was, reading a Mr Men book to my stepson's half-brother. The young son of my ex-husband's ex-wife. Or my ex-husband's first wife. My ex-wife-in-law. We struggle, Sam and I, with what to call one another. At one time, we were enemies, but now that we are friends the use of the word 'friends' doesn't quite cover the incredible journey that we've taken together, how we set aside our problems to share the mothering of a little boy that we both love deeply in our different ways.

Eleven years ago I used to read Mr Men books to my stepson Ben. At that time I had no idea where his mother even was; I simply resented her for not being there. I didn't know that eleven years later we would have written a book together and become so close, that Ben would once again be living with his mother and I would be reading a similar book to Ben's younger brother Dylan, my own daughter Kiera at her dance class, now both Sam and I divorced from our children's father Roger.

Driving home I blasted Madonna's Confessions album at full volume - pure genius by the way - and marvelled at my life and the blessed changes it puts me through. Sometimes hard, sometimes impossible, but always full of growth and amazement. I found myself filled with joy at the wonder of it all.

I guess it was always going to be a funny day when you wake up and decide that you're going to tell your mother that you've been sleeping with someone she'll disapprove of. So why did I do that?

You have to understand something about my mother. I was never going to get away with it for very long. We're talking about the woman who, four years after the actual event, told me she knew which boyfriend I'd lost my virginity to and when, despite the fact that it had taken place in another city far from my home town.

Before today she already knew something was 'up' with me so I was running on limited time. I know that the sleeping with a potentially unsuitable man may well be the interesting part, but I apologise because that's not why I told her. I told her because of my writing.

In one way or another I've been working directly on my writing for five years now. It took me until the autumn of 2005 to publish anything for anyone else to read and that was mainly for friends. I spent most of 2006 working on a book that's currently with agents, one of whom is going to call me very soon telling me they are dying to work with me, I just know it.

Part of the writing battle is always worrying about how your work will be received. At first it's a general 'will anyone like it'. After a time you get into specifics. When I started writing about spirituality I was terrified about what my atheist father would think. I was right; he did hate it, but fortunately for me by the time that had happened I had accepted that and was fine with it.

The book that I've written only frightens me a little. It's my story; a true story of a stepmother with custody of her stepson and it's the story of my stepson's mother watching me raising her child. There's no-one to offend - except perhaps the ex-husband that she and I share - but it's all true and as a result I'm not concerned.

After all of this I started thinking about some of the things that I'd really like to say. I want to voice some of my more objectionable opinions. The ones that I've always been told to shut up about. The ones that make me feel that nobody will ever want me to be their friend or lover again.

When I do this, I want to be in a space where I no longer worry about what my parents think. I believe someone famous once said that most writers never write anything interesting until their parents are dead. I don't want to wait until then, so I told my mother about the man. I'm going to put myself in a space where I can be open and vulnerable about everything in my life, especially the stuff that I'm most sensitive about. To write, I have to.