With the exception of my husband, so far, I have never been faithful to anyone. The thought of limiting myself to the one companion was too dreadful to contemplate when I was very young, and even more sad to entertain as I grew older. Contentment seems to me like a desolate beach of dried-up twigs and grey, polished stones: a place to visit just occasionally, to meditate and relax. I know that no society can survive without the institution of marriage or similar philosophy of mutual acceptance to the exclusion of all others, but is the forced status quo beneficial to real personal relationships?

I had the obligatory unhappy childhood all psychologists would look for if they were to study my case, an angry and frustrated mother who demanded to live through me instead of taking her own responsibilities and a violent father who was nevertheless utterly charming with the ladies. I would love to blame each of them for the many dysfunctional elements of my personality, and I have plenty of raw material to dip my hands in. However, the truth is that I love to be wanted. As soon as the 'want' becomes less of a need and more of a satisfying sense of achievement, the luring attraction of a hitherto ignored outside world speaks loudly to my eager ears.

Lovers have their advantages, of course. Forever tucked away into the murky corners of my dirty conscience, they carry an intrinsic convenience by the very nature of their secret existence, to be whipped out and feisted upon at the relevant moment, like the lone chocolate biscuit one reserves for special occasions, as a personal reward for being good.

Paradoxically, the prize for being 'good' turns into a sudden taste of the untouchable. One can be so much more sexually liberated when the event is isolated, ripped away from any reference to other, practical aspects of one's life.

I cavorted inside fantastically small cars, stretching limbs and achieving positions I was not aware were physically possible, with casual partners who would never see me doubled-up in pain during my period, with a hot water bottle and two strong painkillers.

When I was eighteen I met a soldier who was about to get married, and madly in love with his fiancee. I seduced him by pretending I was a foreign orphan called Sheherazade. My rendition of a Middle-Eastern accent was something I was particularly proud of. Escaping from reality has its own powerful charm.

What happens, though, when reality has become a much larger cobweb, and one is well and truly enveloped in it? Can I still do it?