The cost of being a good-time girl

As Princess Margaret is cremated quietly at Slough, far too many commentators have said that her death had little effect on the nation. That she was a minor Royal, didn't command much interest any more, only the elderly monarchists really cared. I disagree: I think women of my own generation might carry a great deal away from the lesson of Margaret's life and death. From what I have read about her in the newspapers, it seems that Princess Margaret was somewhat scandalous in the 1960s. Heady affairs, long cigarette-holders, parties on yachts and tropical islands ... While Princess Elizabeth was the nice girl: elegant, quiet, serious. Well, nobody wants to be a Lillibet any more; we all want to be a Margo.

Princess Margaret's is the life we are supposed to have, we young women of the 21st century: parties, indulgence and zipping about; sexual adventure, frantic socialising and plenty of holidays. That's the lesson of Bridget Jones, Sex and the City, Geri and Kylie. "Carpe diem" is the motto: tearing into life and accruing experience. And all very self-indulgent experience.

When glossy magazines list "The Things You Should Have Done Before You're Thirty", it's always "Had a threesome", "Tried coke", and "Driven a convertible through Rome". They never suggest you should have "Given blood", "Helped someone across a road" or "Planted a tree". That's not cool. Imagine the derisive snort if you suggested that kind of list: you'd be pious, priggish, dull and out of kilter with the zeitgeist.

It's all about the quick fix and the new high. Fast food, vodka shots and this week's fashion. The lesson seems to be that we must rush through life or we'll miss it - rather than that we should stop and look around once in a while. Think things through, make informed decisions, plan ahead. No, says the prevailing culture: you mustn't stop running.

Instead of feeling that rewards are worth more if you've earned them, we're shown that hard work is a waste of time - the clever people are snatching up the treats without any effort. Scratch this card and win a million! Ring Max Clifford and make your fortune! And what about Pop Idol?

Forget "Fame costs, and right here's where you start paying in sweat." Nah, now you're supposed to win a freak audition and be a star by Saturday.

Restlessness and gusto are valued over patience and forbearance. If your marriage is boring, walk out. If your job is taxing, quit it. Seek always stimulus and novelty. We must be excited and exciting at all times. Be a hare not a tortoise - and we all conveniently-forget what happened at the finish line.

This is not just about lifestyle, but personality. The successful young woman must be a Margaret, not an Elizabeth: vivacious rather than gentle, glamorous rather than sweet, immediately noticeable rather than gradually appreciated. The four girls in Sex And The City (a programme I love and live by) are meant to represent every kind of modern woman. But which one is supposed to be studious, charitable, dutiful or self- denying? None, because these are old forgotten values and nobody would watch it.

You must sparkle at the centre of the room, not listen quietly on the edges. Surface dazzle is rated higher than hidden depths. Nobody has time to get to know each other: you walk into a party and get five minutes to impress with your flair, Manolos and risqu? chat.

I'll put my hands up and admit these are my own values. I never shut up and listen. I'm frightened to settle down, stay quiet or stop moving in case I miss out. I give up on things quickly if they don't yield immediate satisfaction. I go out every night, drink and smoke as if I were immortal, and find all men briefly fascinating but ultimately imperfect.

So I could not - nor could any young woman I know - in any way disapprove of Princess Margaret's pacy attitude. Quite the reverse. We salute her for the charisma, style and determined embrace of fun. While managing to bring up a couple of very well-balanced children, Margaret was heroically carefree, inspiringly glamorous, and part of the vital Sixties revolution to which we all owe so much. Without it, we'd still be dressing like our grandmothers and sex might be nothing more than a nasty shock on the wedding night. Homage must be paid to all the early ravers, and Margaret was certainly one of those.

But the manner of her last years, and the tone of her death, can't help but offer a nasty warning. Is that how it ends, this fast life? Finally giving up the drink and fags when you're forced to by a series of strokes? Living your last years alone, because no man was ever good enough? It's heartbreaking to look at the Sixties pictures of her: so energetic, lively and thrillseeking, just like we all try to be in the 21st century. And then to look at the last pictures of her, lonely and halfblind, and think? "I don't want that to be me in 40 years - or 10."