There is a survey out this week which claims you need just five friends to steer you safely through the vale of tears we call life.

They are: an agony aunt type to whom you can tell all your problems and will deliver sound, sensible advice in return; a figure with a head for figures who will explain to you what an ISA is, which you should choose and why even the most generous provider won’t accept regretted shoe-purchases in lieu of cash deposits; one who will provide a shoulder – and in times of crisis, two – to cry on; a practical person who owns a toolbox and even knows how to deploy its contents and a fifth and final one in the workplace, to help you negotiate office politics and the even more bafflingly intricate workings of the new coffee machine.

To which I can only reply – what do you mean five? Long gone are the days when I had the luxury of five friends. By which I mean, people with whom I shared a strong historical bond (from childhood, school or university) and with whom I could meet up with casually at the drop of a hat, en masse or individually and spend joyful hours chatting about everything and nothing, or forensically dissecting, examining and advising on my latest emotional, personal or professional trauma. Five friends of that calibre to me these days would be riches beyond measure, beyond the dreams of avarice.

In your early twenties, maintaining friendships is easy. The atmosphere of amity hangs around post-university as you all move to the nearest big city (in my case, London) to look for jobs, flats and fun. You have no responsibilities (except to yourself, and I don’t know about you but I found me very forgiving of myself at that age) and plenty of time and money to meet up and plenty of tales to tell about your new lives when you do. It’s wonderful.

Is five the magic number of friends?