Taking dating lessons from my daughter: ‘Flirting is being present in the moment’

It was coming up to Christmas and I asked my grown daughter what she wanted. She said, ‘What I want for you is to find love again’

It was something that hadn’t crossed my mind to want for myself. I was 65 and amicably separated from her father. Our marriage had lost its mojo long before; there had been struggle and frustration, and she had witnessed that.

I replied, “Darling, I’ve got a great life! I travel, I do interesting work, I’ve got great friends, I’m content.” She said, “No, I want you to love again.” It turned out that she’d spoken to my friends who’d known me for decades, and they had told her what I was like in my 20s: that I was an incredible flirt, that I was vivacious, that I was confident around men. She said, “I haven’t seen that part of you.”

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When you can’t quit a crush

Falling head over heels in love is one thing, but if it becomes all-consuming you may be in ‘limerance’

A few years ago I was at my university’s library, frantically refreshing a dating app. Under my crush’s photo there was a location setting that told me how far she was from me. “One mile away!” I felt a surge of adrenaline and my mind started racing.

I was a promoter for a gay nightclub in London’s Soho, which was where I met Lucy. I’d drop my flyers on purpose and she’d help me pick them up. We had been on a few dates and were making plans to meet again. Then we came across each other on a dating app – “Fancy seeing you here!” – and matched as a joke. Even though dating apps were probably unreliable in their geolocation abilities, suddenly I could gauge her distance from me.

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How Kamala Harris made wearing pearls cool

As the pearl’s standing increases with that of women, a progressive new generation is reimagining Margaret Thatcher’s one-time trademark

The pearl, insignia of traditional femininity and conservative values, has swung to the left, becoming the badge of the US’s new Democrat establishment. Kamala Harris, the vice-president, has made pearl necklaces her trademark, teaming them on the campaign trail with Converse trainers rather than twinsets. At last month’s inauguration, Jill Biden’s dress had a pearl-embroidered collar, while Jennifer Lopez performed wearing cuffs of Chanel pearls on both wrists. A Facebook group encouraging women around the US to wear pearls on the day to honour Harris’s accomplishments drew a membership of 350,000. The poet Amanda Gorman, star of the ceremony, continued the trend by wearing a crown of pearls for her appearance at the Super Bowl this week.

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Japanese lose taste for Valentine’s ‘obligation chocs’ under Covid

Growing numbers of women ditch giri choco custom of ‘forced giving’ of gifts to senior male colleagues

Shifting gender politics and the coronavirus have combined to spell the possible end of the Japanese Valentine’s Day custom of women giving chocolates to male colleagues.

Traditionally, women are expected to buy gift-wrapped chocolates for the men in their working lives – usually senior colleagues and others who have helped them during the course of the year – as part of a tradition called giri choco, literally “obligation chocolates”.

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‘We are desperate for human contact’: people breaking lockdown for sex

For nearly 12 months, single people have been unable to form new relationships. With their chances to start a family or find love slipping away, many are now ignoring the rules

Last summer, shortly after the first lockdown was relaxed enough to allow strangers to meet outdoors, Rosie, 35, an editor based in London, joined a man for a first date on Hampstead Heath. “He said: ‘I brought some wine with me, but the glasses are in my flat, round the corner.’ I’d only met him for an hour. Even in normal times, I wouldn’t be up for that.” She can’t be entirely sure if he was suggesting an illicit drink or a very quick-off-the-bat shag, but it wasn’t a dilemma, at least. “Maybe people’s pheromones have gone funny,” Rosie says, “or maybe I secretly have Covid and can’t smell anyone properly, but I’ve had more smouldering frisson at the supermarket than I have on a date. I’ve had sex just four times since March.”

For nearly a year, give or take the odd month, the rules introduced to fight the spread of coronavirus mean that, in England, sex between single people, or established couples who don’t cohabit, has in effect been either illegal, or against regulations, or only allowed outdoors. To give that a sense of scale, 40% of people – rising to 71% among 16- to 29-year-olds – don’t live in a couple.

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I found peace in an unexpected corner of the internet: nun Twitter

Religious Twitter brings together nuns, monks, bishops and rabbis too and it may have something to teach us

There is a Rumi poem – it is my favourite. “Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,” writes the 13th-century mystic, “there is a field. I’ll meet you there.”

I feel this way about religious Twitter.

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Red alert: 17 scorchingly good recipes with chillies – from tom yum soup to vodka

Whether it’s squid salad, pork belly or a chocolate cake, almost anything can be jazzed up with some heat. Here are some fabulous recipes from top chefs

Chillies come in such a bewildering array of shapes and colours these days that it doesn’t pay to be too specific: if a recipe calls for a particular sort, you are bound to be unable to find it. In any case, the difference between any two chillies is largely a matter of heat, and heat is largely a matter of taste. So forget about size or colour (green ones are generally hotter than red, but then they turn red anyway if you leave them sitting about) or intimidating varietal names such as yellow death-inducing toxin. Just taste one. If it’s not hot enough, use two or three. If it’s too hot, scrape out the seeds and, specifically, the white membrane they’re attached to, which is the hottest bit.

The most obvious thing to make with chilli is probably chilli, and the least obvious person to rely on for a solid, no-nonsense chilli con carne recipe is probably Heston Blumenthal. Nevertheless, I make his version almost exclusively. While it’s about as fussy as you’d imagine, it’s also pretty forgiving. The fragata pimiento piquillo peppers he tells you to add at the end, for example: I never have any – I don’t even really know what they are – so I just skip that bit, and it’s fine. The spiced butter is the most labour-intensive aspect, and the most counterintuitive, containing as it does ketchup, marmite, Worcestershire sauce and, well, butter. But it makes all the difference.

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‘I get better sleep’: the people who quit social media

Soo Youn is considering giving up the apps. She speaks to those who have already taken the plunge – with liberating results

My memory and recall are alarmingly good – borderline photographic. But when I used Instagram, I found it would short-circuit my recall in an alarming way. I’d be describing something mid-sentence and I’d just stop speaking, unable to finish. So I rarely use it.

But my attention span – and my posture, eyes and sleep – are still being degraded by other technology and my dependence on it. In my pandemic life, technology is a lifeline – 90% of my social and work life happens on one of four screens.

I’m flirting with the idea of giving up social media and maybe even ... texts. I am fascinated by people like Justine Haupt, a quantum communications engineer who has never owned a smartphone. She also builds and sells rotary cellphones. Yes, rotary cellphones.

What would my life be like if getting in touch with people required me to communicate with purpose, memorize numbers again, and dial with my fingers, instead of, accidentally, my butt?

For my sake – and yours – I sought inspiration from people who have already crossed into a more analog life.

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The forever ponytail: woman shares ordeal after using Gorilla Glue on her hair

Tessica Brown has gained a captive audience on TikTok and Instagram after mistakenly using super-strength adhesive on her hair

“Stiff where?” Tessica Brown asked TikTok, one week ago, before the world was aware of her struggle. “My hair,” she finished.

And stiff it has been, for more than a month now, as Brown continues battling against what so far seems to be an irreversible decision: mistakenly using Gorilla Glue to hold her hairstyle in place.

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Moufida Tlatli, first Arab woman to direct a feature film, dies aged 73

Tunisian director of multi-award-winning The Silences of the Palace broke the mould with films about the trauma suffered by generations of women

Moufida Tlatli, the pioneering Tunisian film-maker hailed as the first Arab woman to direct a feature film, has died aged 73. News media said that she died on Sunday, with the news confirmed by the Tunisian ministry of culture.

Tlatli remains best known for her breakthrough 1994 feature The Silences of the Palace, a lyrical study of a woman’s return to an abandoned royal residence, which tackled the themes of exploitation and trauma as experienced across generations of Arab women. It won a string of international awards, including the Sutherland trophy at the London film festival for the most “original and imaginative” film of the year, and was named as one of Africa’s 10 best films by critic and director Mark Cousins. The film was inspired by her mother’s difficult life; in 2001, Tlatli told the Guardian she “was riven with guilt … It was so insupportable, exhausting, suffocating.”

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‘I thought buying things would make me feel better. It didn’t’: The rise of emotional spending

Many of us are living for the buzz of the doorbell – spending billions we can’t afford on stuff we don’t need. Here is how to recognise the problem and regain control

In the past fortnight, I have bought the following items online: a hideous cat tree that takes up most of my living room, a lavender pillow spray, two scarves, a pair of gloves, two candles, a sheet mask, a pair of fleece-lined jogging bottoms (so comfy!), a card-holder and an under-eye brightening cream. None of these purchases were essential. Many I haven’t even taken out of the packaging, leaving them in a pile by the front door.

Ten months into the pandemic, I know the rhythms of the courier networks better than I know my menstrual cycle. Royal Mail in the morning; DPD and Hermes in the afternoon. Amazon comes any time, including late at night. DPD couriers insist on taking a photo of you with the package, mortifyingly. I wonder where these photos go: me in a food-stained tracksuit, dirty-haired, holding an armful of packages I can’t remember ordering with an abashed smile. I pray they never see the light of day.

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It’s time to start talking about kink – and take the shame away from it

It wasn’t long ago that kink was so forbidden as to go largely unmentioned. We hope our book will help in the work of destigmatizing kink by making it more visible

It started in the fall of 2017. I was staying at an artists’ residency in New Hampshire, and I was thinking about what it can mean to be afraid of one’s own desires, to feel ashamed of what the body wants.

I had just published a story in Playboy, Safeword, about a couple arranging a first-time session with a professional dominatrix. By then, I’d published short fiction for almost a decade, but the story was by far the most sexually explicit piece of fiction I’d written, and I’d tried to brace myself for the odd, hostile notes I would surely receive from titillated strangers. As it turned out, I did hear from a lot of readers, but the notes weren’t hostile – instead, for the most part, people thanked me. The story had helped them feel less alone, they said.

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How we met: ‘He said I was the nicest girl he’d ever seen – he looked so awkward!’

Alice, 51, and Ian, 55, Glass, met in a restaurant in Johannesburg in 1990. They live and work together on a farm near Kruger national park, South Africa

Alice Granville was in her final year of university in August 1990 when she met a friend for dinner. “Her husband was meant to join us with one of his friends, and he was going to be my blind date,” she says. However, the two men were late, so Alice and her friend continued to drink in the bar. Ian, who was out with friends enjoying the live music, spotted her from across the room. “She caught my eye and I smiled shyly,” he remembers. Alice and her friend gave up waiting for their dates and moved into the restaurant dining room. “I noticed she’d disappeared, and I had this really strong feeling of missed opportunity. My friends were completely unaware,” says Ian.

I was half looking at the menu, half wondering how I could meet her

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Jackie Kay on Bessie Smith: ‘My libidinous, raunchy, fearless blueswoman’

As a black girl growing up in 1970s Glasgow, poet Jackie Kay developed a passion for Bessie Smith. In this extract from her new book, she remembers the wild spirit who helped her find her true self

I was adopted in 1961 and brought up in a suburban house in a suburban street in the north of Glasgow. A small, semi-detached Wimpey house. Outside our house is a cherry-blossom tree that is as old as me. It doesn’t seem the most likely place to be introduced to the blues, but then blues travel to wherever the blues lovers go. In my street and in the neighbouring streets to Brackenbrae Avenue, I never saw another black person. There was my brother and me. That was it. The butcher, the baker and the candlestick-maker were all white. (Although I never actually met a candlestick-maker – has anyone?)

So the first time I saw Bessie Smith, it really was like finding a friend. I saw her before I heard her. My father – a Scottish communist who loved the blues – bought me my first double album. I was 12. The album was called Bessie Smith: Any Woman’s Blues and produced by CBS Records ( John Hammond and Chris Albertson; Albertson went on to write her biography). I remember taking the album off him and poring over it, examining it for every detail. Her image on the cover captivated me. She looked so familiar. She looked like somebody I already knew in my heart of hearts. I stared at the image of her, trying to recall who it was she reminded me of.

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‘Adoption has been a journey from ignorance to enlightenment’

When I decided to adopt orphaned twins from Ethiopia, it felt like the most natural thing to do. But it raised many questions about motherhood and the bond we have with our children

I assumed I would conceive naturally when John and I decided to start a family. I didn’t. We turned to fertility drugs with ambivalence. Reports of the mood swings the drugs sometimes caused worried me. I had only gone through one round when I broke a wooden dish-drying rack over John’s head. I don’t remember what he said, but I’m sure it was something I’d otherwise have considered innocuous. Instead, a growling, uncontrollable rage emerged from nowhere and then overcame me like an emotional tsunami. We decided the drugs weren’t for us.

I had gone along with fertility treatments for the same reason I went along with other non-decisions I’ve made in my life, like having an enormous wedding, because people whom I loved wanted it for me. I thought I was supposed to want it, just like I was supposed to want to get pregnant by any means. Yet I cried genuine tears when, month after month, I was unable to conceive. I felt like a failure.

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Perfect storm: have the influencers selling a dream lost their allure?

Social media stars, already under fire for trips to Dubai in lockdown, are now involved in a row over Instagram posts

Makeup artist Sasha Louise Pallari started her hashtag #filterdrop in summer 2020. A social media campaign to discourage influencers promoting beauty products by using filters to exaggerate their effect, it paid off last week when the Advertising Standards Authority banned two tanning brands from using misleading filters on Instagram Stories. The ruling means that in future all use of filters will be more tightly controlled – and, so the theory goes, more “natural” content likely to be seen on social media.

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Destined for an arranged marriage, I chose to follow my heart

As a teenager, true love seemed like an impossible dream, but I was determined to marry for love and not obligation

This year, my husband Richard and I will have been married for 10 years. It may not sound all that long, but it feels quietly significant to me, this decade of us, not least because there was a time that I could not fathom a world in which we could ever be together at all.

I grew up expecting to marry someone my parents chose for me: a suitable young man who would share my Pakistani family background, my cultural heritage and faith. I can’t remember how old I was when I understood this – only that I did, without it needing to be explained. It was what my cousins did and the daughters of our family friends did. It was the way things were.

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Close-ups, cats and clutter: what the online yoga teacher saw

Teaching via Instagram and Zoom is both more and less intimate than a real-life class

Fifteen people lie down in rectangles on my screen. I am telling them to relax their jaws and soften the muscles around their eyes. I am also having a silent, hand gesture-based conversation with a five-year-old girl in one of the rectangles. This morning the girl’s mother sent me an email that read: “I’m going to attempt as much of the class as she will allow me to do – sometimes she is fine with it, and sometimes not.” In the next box, a cat strolls into view and settles down on its owner’s back as they rest in the child’s pose. Elsewhere, a dog is causing chaos at the back of someone’s mat. This is what I’ve learned from teaching Zoom yoga; mostly, small children and pets rule a household.

I’ve observed couples having conversations in class, giving me a delicious feeling of embarrassment and curiosity

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‘My personal lockdown has been much longer’: on chronic illness, before and after Covid

Life before was a little different, but not a lot. Now I feel a new resilience and hope

Read more: Laura Barton on how a daily call to California got her through lockdown and Elle Hunt on moving to the other side of the world and the pandemic

I’ve been inside my cramped terrace house for nearly a year now. There haven’t been walks outside, or trips to the shops. Every morning, I wake into a day the same as yesterday. I reach out a hand to the cat who I know will be curled by my right side, listen for the creak of my son climbing down from his bunk bed. He will come and bundle himself under my covers, and we will begin again, another day juggling his schoolwork and my writing work, all conducted mostly from my bed.

I remember, dream-like, two weeks in the summer last year when it felt safe enough for my partner to fly over from Denmark, after six months apart. We drove to quiet places and he pushed me in my wheelchair. I wept, happy to see him and the green trees, and to eat picnics on the warm ground, a family again. It has been six months since then, and so we sit each day in front of iPads, touching fingers to the screen, baffled and smiling to still be in this strange, unforeseen predicament – falling in love, still, because distance does nothing to halt that. My life is one of pain, fatigue, activity, laughter.

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