It’s the big question ­everyone is asking me. Why, at the age of 79, after four marriages and four divorces, did I decide to say ‘I do’ for the fifth time?

Was I bonkers? No.

I must admit I didn’t tell anybody at all. Last month, Peter and I had a short ceremony at a register office in Great Yarmouth, Norfolk, with just two of our neighbours as witnesses.

We had talked about it a lot, but I’d always thought it would be too ­embarrassing to walk down the aisle yet again.

Gradually, though, I warmed to the idea because I knew it would make Peter very happy. It was a joint ­decision in the end, one that seemed natural after more than two decades together.

I got myself in a complete state the day before, though. I think because my last marriage was such a big, big ­mistake. I didn’t want to do anything I would regret. And I didn’t want to ­disrespect Peter by not taking it ­seriously. I wanted it to be lovely for him because he hasn’t been married before.

Unlike all my other weddings, this one came at the end of a very long relationship – over a quarter of a century. And while all (except one) of my husbands and long-term boyfriends had their merits, this one is ­special. This one will last.

We first met in 1998, but started living together in 1999. We’ve had our ups and downs over the years. We’ve lived apart for months, but we’ve always got back together.

We are two very different personalities. A Cockney born to working-class parents with strong family values, my husband is an intensely private person who doesn’t want to be in the spotlight. It’s my way of life, but certainly not his.

Why, at the age of 79, after four marriages and four divorces, did I decide to say ‘I do’ for the fifth time? Was I bonkers? No, writes Janet Street-Porter

Peter and I had a short ceremony at a register office in Great Yarmouth, Norfolk, with just two of our neighbours as witnesses

He really doesn’t want to be talked about or written about, and ­prefers to remain in our remote house in Norfolk, with Badger, our slightly overweight Border Terrier, for company, walking on the marshes and ­enjoying the rich wildlife.

Marsh harriers (huge birds of prey), ­bitterns and hundreds of geese are our only neighbours. All very different to his previous life when he ran a busy restaurant and bar in fashionable Clerkenwell, central London, before ­giving it up for a quiet life in 2006.

As for me, I still spend a lot of time in the capital working, appearing on Loose Women and touring my one-woman show. I have no plans to retire.

A former teacher and trained counsellor, Peter continues to help people cope with the trials of modern life. He cared for his mother when she was dying. He has lifelong friends who date back to his college years, and they talk every week on the phone. So, a very ­different person to me, a woman who has written two memoirs (Baggage and Fall Out) chronicling my turbulent relationship with my own mother.

I can probably put the fact I have married over and over again down to my mother’s example. She was married to her first ­husband when she met my dad and they embarked on an affair – she was not divorced until well after my younger sister was born.

My parents finally married in the mid-1950s, when I was eight. They didn’t tell us, though, and never spoke of it. Of course, to have children out of wedlock – not least when married to another man – was ­shameful back then.

Mum was consumed with anxiety about what the neighbours thought of our family. Everything had to appear normal on the ­outside, so she hid her shame and only confided in my sister and me about their marital ­situation after my father’s death.

It turned out that Dad had also been married when they met and also didn’t get divorced until well after my sister was born.

My own experience of marriage started young. I got engaged to my first serious boyfriend, Rex, when I was barely 18 and halfway through my first year at architectural ­college. It made no sense whatsoever.

I had already cheated on him with his flatmate and one of his best friends. But I saw Rex as my passport out of home. Cruel, but true.

My grant was just £5 a week to cover my travelling costs so I had to continue to live at home, in deep suburbia, under the constant ­scrutiny of my parents.

I made clothes for a Carnaby Street boutique to bolster my income, as well as appearing in a couple of movies as an extra. With my long hair (sprayed silver), big hoop earrings, sooty eye make-up and sulky expression, I was hard to miss.

My engagement made Mum ­deliriously happy, and she was hoping for a white wedding. But at the end of my first year at college, I went to a photographic exhibition at the Institute of Contemporary Arts given by Tim Street-Porter, and we immediately got on.

To be honest, I was smitten from the moment I saw tall and ­handsome Tim.

Within 24 hours, I had summoned Rex to a pub and told him the ­wedding was off. He was distraught. I could offer no real explanation other than I knew it wouldn’t work. I was not to see him again for 30 years.

My mother was incandescent. I had brought shame on our family. How could she face the neighbours? I couldn’t care less. I was besotted.

Within a month I had walked out of the family home in Perivale, west London, with just a handbag and the clothes I had on. I moved in with Tim, who rented a room in a huge flat in Earl’s Court.

I went back when I knew my ­parents were away and retrieved my belongings. They tried to get me to return, but I refused to take their calls and ignored their letters.

A year later Tim and I decided to get married – we were madly in love and only told my parents a fortnight before the ceremony.

Tony Elliot (husband number two) and I lived together from the start. In retrospect we were too similar. Like me, he was a workaholic. But that didn’t stop us marrying after two years

Marriage to Frank Cvitanovich was inevitable. But the age difference proved harder than I’d thought

Tim was a highly ambitious, ­talented architectural photographer sought after by the top ­magazines and designers. The wedding went ahead in 1967 with my mother happy that her daughter had married into the middle classes.

I dropped out of college after two years and started my journalistic career by landing a job as home ­editor on Petticoat, a weekly ­magazine for young women.

A year later, I was offered the ­prestigious job of deputy fashion editor at the Daily Mail – and was soon writing a weekly column. I had got so far, and was still just 22.

Life in swinging London was so exciting, and I was at the centre of a lot of social activities, with plenty of parties and art openings. Tim was constantly travelling, and I had a very short attention span.

I still regret cheating on Tim because he was (and probably still is) a lovely person, but we had ­married too young.

He discovered my relationship with Tony Elliott, the owner of Time Out magazine. By then, I had moved from print journalism to hosting a weekly show for young people on London Weekend Television.

After eight years, Tim and I divorced – though we managed to salvage a friendship. Tony, who was just two weeks younger than me, and I lived together from the start. In ­retrospect we were too similar. Like me, he was a workaholic.

But that didn’t stop us marrying after two years. I can’t remember which of us suggested it but we both felt it was a good excuse for a big party in my house in Limehouse beside the River Thames.

The very next morning, in the cold light of a slight hangover, I realised it was a mistake. I had been too impetuous, diving straight from marital breakdown into another serious relationship.

My mother, who had warmed to Tony, was completely blindsided when we announced our amicable divorce 18 months later. If we still liked each other, she thought, why didn’t we stay married?

But we had decided to prioritise our long-term friendship over ­marriage. And we were right to do so. When Tony married again a few years later, I made a speech at the wedding congratulating him on his perfect choice. His wife, Janey, is a close friend to this day. A few months later, Tony even set me up with his friend, Frank ­Cvitanovich, a distinguished ­Canadian film director who was 19 years older than me.

I had lunch with Frank and we immediately were attracted to each other. Within months, he was living in my house and we bought a country place in Yorkshire, which he adored, making many documentaries up there.

Marriage to Frank was ­inevitable. I didn’t enter into it lightly. Frank was ­completely different to Tony: charming, outgoing, a big character with a distinguished career and ­a circle of high-­powered friends. I really hoped it would be ­different this time.

But the age difference proved harder than I’d thought. He loved watching sport for hours on end and secretly smoking (which I loathed). He also suffered serious depression when four years into our marriage his only son, Bunny, died of cancer aged 11.

Slowly, I found myself drifting away from Frank. I took a six-month job in Australia, hosting a daily TV show. Frank came out and visited but, when I returned to London, I immediately took a job ­producing a TV series for Channel 4 in Carlisle, Cumbria – once again, I was away for months on end.

I started divorce proceedings the moment I was legally allowed to – a year after tying the knot with husand number 4. It was hideous. He would not leave my house and I am still scared of him 

By learning toleration, expressing forgiveness and not behaving in a totally self-centred way, I have finally found peace, with husband number five (pictured with Badger the Border Terrier)

In the end I had another affair, with a rock guitarist. Frank was distraught, but did not want to end our marriage. I forced him to acknowledge it was over, and that we had slowly grown apart.

We divorced in 1981 after two years. I felt bad, but Frank married again, to a previous girlfriend, and we remained friends until he died in 1995.

At 49, I had a midlife crisis. Having risen to the top of the BBC as an executive in charge of dozens of series, I left when I didn’t get the job of running BBC2. I then made the ghastly mistake of getting involved in Live TV, a new cable channel launched in 1995. Setting up a TV station from scratch, dealing with imperious, oafish male executives, all took a toll.

I met a young man at a friend’s birthday party and took him on holiday a month later. We were in Jamaica for Christmas. Without exception, all my friends loathed him. I still can’t bear to write his name.

Midlife madness must be the only possible explanation for marrying this fellow at 3.30am in Las Vegas just after my 50th birthday in 1997. A week later, I was in Los Angeles, toyboy in tow. At ­dinner, a friend – the photo­grapher Helmut Newton – asked who the sulky young man at the end of the table was. I replied: ‘A mistake.’

I started divorce proceedings the moment I was legally allowed to – a year after tying the knot. It was hideous. He would not leave my house and I am still scared of him.

That stupid escapade eroded my trust in men. In 1998 I was introduced to Peter in his bar by the art dealer Jay Jopling and Tracey Emin.

By then I realised that, for a ­relationship to work, both people must trust each other.

With Peter I didn’t feel the need to cheat as I had done in other relationships. I can’t explain why; maybe I had finally stopped behaving like a teenager.

Love isn’t about sex, or being needy. True love must be anchored in trust and feeling comfortable with each other.

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You might say: ‘Why did it take you until your 60s and 70s to work that out?’

I don’t have an answer, but I do know that by learning ­toleration, expressing forgiveness and not behaving in a totally self-centred way, I have finally found peace, with ­husband number five.

For decades I put my career above everything but I am a different, softer person now.

Our wedding was low-key, private, and afterwards we celebrated with lunch in a pub in Norfolk with just six friends.

The best example of how much I’ve learned to adapt as I’ve got older, is my relationship with Badger, our ­characterful Border Terrier.

Twelve years ago Peter said he wanted a dog and I refused point blank, saying an animal would mess up my perfect home. So Peter walked out, bought Badger as a tiny puppy and went to live with his mother for six months.

Now, Badger is very much part of my life – yes, I’ve become a dog lover in my 70s. Badger and I sing together, and I couldn’t be happier.

There’s no doubt I have saved the best till last.