I grew up in suburban South Wales and until I went to university in the late 80s I thought most Jewish families were like my own: intermarriages on every branch, and not entirely sure where the nearest synagogue was.

Manchester University rapidly corrected my misperception: I didn't just get an academic education there, I got a Jewish one too.

For my alma mater was where I met Jews en masse for the first time and, accordingly, where I first heard words like "simcha" and "frum", and expressions such as "Friday night dinner" and "marrying out."

These days, I live in north London where I regularly host Friday night dinners, and where I see tens of frummers (of the meshugannah variety, noch) every day on my school run to Simon Marks Jewish Primary, in Stamford Hill.

So, in many ways, I've given my children a very different upbringing from mine which featured Brownies and Venture Scouts, rather than cheder, Habonim Dror and a bat mitzvah.

However, in one significant way I've failed my Jewish offspring: I married out. Well, to be absolutely precise, I co-habited with their non-Jewish dad: I was a common law wife. ("Was" being the operative word as we're now separated, of which more later).

Anyway, what it means is that I'm part of a statistic: I'm one of the one in four Jews who, according to JPR's new study, found love outside the tribe. What's more, we are part of a steadily growing club: marriage between British Jews and non-Jews is now at its highest level for generations.

More happily, I'm also one of the 31 per cent of intermarrieds who raise their kids as Jewish. And in my case, successfully so: Leah, 15, identifies strongly as a secular Jew, is a staunch supporter of Israel and can get by in Ivrit. At eight and three quarters, Aaron's a bit young to have meaningful views on his identity, but all the signs are good. So good, in fact, that I have always defended our mixed family claiming that Jewish continuity happens in many varied and wonderful ways.

But the truth is that that deep down, I'm worried that one day they too will find a non-Jewish beshert: according to the report, the children of intermarried couples are at least twice as likely as those of in-marrieds to intermarry as well. So, what's my maternal advice? Well, I'm in the invidious position of saying: do as I say, not as I did.

For however much I wish it were not the case, and however warmly I feel towards the huge numbers of non-Jews married to Jews, there's no getting away from the fact that, over generations, intermarriage is corrosive to Jewishness.

The cold, hard reality is that if Jews continue to love and marry outside the club, we will eventually assimilate ourselves out of existence. And Jewish civilisation - the stories and the sounds, the memories and the music, the teachings and the tastes - is a treasure grown over the millennia that is worth preserving.

For me, the marriage dilemma is analogous to the educational one: your child might get an excellent academic education in that private secondary you're considering, but, deep down, you know independent schools are divisive for society. So, do you put your child before your principles, or your principles before your child?

Most of us choose what we deem to be in our child's best interests, which is why when it comes to their Jewish journey we need to make the ride as exciting as possible. Visits to Israel, a Jewish schooling, and Habo rather than Venture Scouts, can all play a part in creating self-identifying Jews who will see marrying-in as almost axiomatic. Of course, for religious Jews, tying the knot under the chuppah is absolutely axiomatic. But for those of us who relate to our Jewishness by means other than faith, it's easy for love to trump all else.

Except that love doesn't always conquer all. Intermarried couples in Britain are more than twice as likely as in-marrieds to divorce. I am part of that statistic, too: after 15 years together, my ex and I went our different ways. Did our different backgrounds play a part in our separation? They did.

So when it's their turn to find life partners, my Jewish children will have much to ponder. But before that, there'll be the matter of where they go to university. My Jewish-flavoured alma mater, perhaps? Well, I hear from NUS president Malia Bouttia that Birmingham University is the new "Zionist outpost in higher education".

Sounds ideal.