Is 10 lovers promiscuous?

So now I know that 59 per cent of British people think I'm not a slut. I would take some comfort from that, if only I gave a damn. Having 10 lovers by, let's say, the age of 30, is entirely unavoidable for any normal, sociable serial monogamist person. I take exception to being labelled "promiscuous", which suggests countless casual liaisons and is just a tidy word for getting about a bit.

If the average girl loses her virginity at 15 (I was a chaste 17), and gets married at 29, that's nearly 15 years of a life which will have seen a sociable girl do many things and go through many life changes, and for all of those there is a lover who marked your, if you want to get all cheesy American about it, "life journey".

I definitely fall into the "10 or more" slot. Most of my girlfriends and I hopped into the double figures sack by the time we had left university, and the ones who didn't are now looking back on their divorces with less than fondness.

Frankly, I've stopped counting. My sort look at the statistics that suggest most women sleep with three men before they get married and laugh like drains. Those figures relate to women who lose their virginity, that's one, then start going out with the man they are going to marry, that's two, then split up with him and have sex on the rebound, that's three, then get back together with shag number two. One love life, unlived.

I am incredulous that people still live their lives like that. Post feminism, we aren't scared into marrying the man who takes our virginity - if so I would still be with the schoolboy I lost my virginity to in his study bedroom at Stowe in 1986, aged 17, and boy have I changed since then. I shudder at the thought.

In 18 years, (I'm now 35) I've had eight relationships lasting more than six months; men whom I have grown up with and learned from, loved with every bit of me. Then, because lives move fast in this city, you move on.

Now I look back on every one of those boyfriends with affection. I am fast friends with most - in some cases their girlfriends, too. There's the stuff that won't shock my mother.

Then comes the three incredibly exciting love affairs, all sexually charged, passionate, thrilling - skydiving for the soul, adrenaline sports, probably very bad for you but done for emotional kicks.

These are the sort of men who fly you places and make promises they can't keep and make you feel so wholly sexual, you go mad with it. Deep down you know they aren't right for you, but the urge to explore the chaos in sexual chemistry is irresistible.

So there's at least 10 already - the magic number beyond which a good woman becomes bad - and I've only just got started.

There are the one-night stands, the lonely wrestles between two people who just don't want to be alone tonight. Sometimes they follow the official line, they are empty, awkward and meaningless. You lose a taste for those nights the minute you stop thinking sex is big and clever, and realise it's, umm, meant to feel good.

But they are poignantly human, in a city where we all pretend we aren't. I am still friends with one of my one-night stands. He comes to my parties and we laugh at the messy indignity we shared. Then there are the others, where the dancing was so good it seemed silly to let it end when the club shut.

Occasionally one-night stands turn into a weekend spent lying in bed, talking and eating and drinking, sharing the sort of conversation that only physical intimacy brings about. It's like being properly in love for about 24 hours, perfect little frozen moments in time that don't lead anywhere. It's a buzz.

Then there are the holiday romances like the lovely, inarticulate Namibian bush pilot who looked like a movie star. I missed two flights home while he flew me around south-west Africa, introduced me to his parents and taught me things about another country that you won't learn from guide books. Holiday romances are a rite of passage.

I floated through two summers of love in my late teens, and while it wasn't exactly the shagfest people like to think it was, there were certain stimulating aspects that let you throw off your human constraints and behave rather more like an animal. That was a fun way to lose my innocence.

But it's not all good. The two male friends I ended up sleeping with because affection feels sexy, turned complicated and confusing - and very like a friendship lost. I also regret the showbiz character who felt like a trophy when I talked to my friends afterwards.

Yes, there are a few I could have done without, bad choices made at the end of a bad day, involving a combination of moral laziness, male pressure and more than likely, booze. I would want to protect a daughter from making the sort of mistakes I made when I was young and before I viewed my body as something more sacred.

There have been times when I have agreed with the hardcore feminist line that all sex is rape. But then again, your mistakes shape you, and as long as you can forgive yourself, you learn from, for want of a better expression, f*** ups. You make a choice in life: to go with the Bible line, or to follow baser instincts. Since Henry VIII, the British have tried to manoeuvre around the moral codes that get in the way of a good time, and I have followed that tradition. I wouldn't swap the lovers I've had for a good name and a million quid.

I take my lead from a wise old man. When asked in his last interview, before he died in 1984, if he had any regrets, Sir John Betjeman said: "Yes, I wish I had had more sex."