Living with Huntington’s disease: ‘For our family, the end of days is always close at hand’

Fifteen years ago, writer Charlotte Raven was diagnosed with the incurable neurodegenerative disease – what did it do to her family and her marriage?

The day I found out how I was going to die began innocuously enough: the usual blur of nappy changing and tetchy texts to my husband. Life in our recently refurbished London home had settled into a rhythm, with a low-level background of domestic discontent. Arguments about wallpaper had run their course; our cats had made their peace with our one-year-old daughter, Anna; and I was pleased to have married a responsible hedonist who liked babies but never made me feel guilty for finding them boring.

That day, my husband, Tom, had gone to work early; a documentary director, he was filming a series about the London Underground. After a sleepless night, I was eating breakfast with Anna when the landline rang. It was my dad’s old friend Eric, who had been keeping an eye on him ever since my mum had died four years earlier. We were all worried because Murph (everyone called my dad Murph) had been making some bad decisions, then digging in defiantly.

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My new lover takes my breath away. However, I feel a sense of dread. How do I stop this?

It is hard to loosen the tentacles that dread wraps around the mind, writes advice columnist Eleanor Gordon-Smith, the goal is to live on despite them

I am a 50-year-old queer woman, embarking on a new relationship after leaving my previous partner of eight years. My new lover is beautiful, smart, insightful, passionate and she actually takes my breath away. We have been dating for about three months. I like what we have and I am extremely fond of her. However, I find myself catastrophising our relationship.

I feel a sense of dread a lot of the time and suspect that there is a part of me that might be self-sabotaging us, based on the belief that she will eventually break my heart. I don’t know how to stop this. I just want to enjoy the relationship, instead of being constantly worried and jumping to the worst conclusions about our future.

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From bawdy fun to fantasising with Demi Moore: the best erotic podcasts

If it’s audio kink you’re after, there’s a podcast for that. Rhik Samadder picks out the best out of the horny bunch

The biggest noise on the audio porn scene is Dipsea, whose range of consensual, sex-positive stories are written by women, for women. The stories, all between 10 and 20 minutes long, are streamlined, yet grounded in character and situation. By the time things descend into panting, the idea is that attuned listeners will be, too. The app has more than 400 stories behind a paywall: straight and queer and diverse in content, with a few enticing freebies concerning military-style yoga instructors and massages between friends. Anyone whose primary erogenous zone is inside their head will find succour here.

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The relationship sabotage scale: quantifying why we undermine ourselves in love

Developed over the course of five studies, the relationship sabotage scale is designed to give analytical rigour to a term more common in pop culture

Do you feel constantly criticised by your partner? Do you sometimes check their social media profiles? Will you admit to them if you know you’re wrong about something?

If you strongly agree or disagree with some of these statements, you might find yourself with a high score on the Relationship Sabotage Scale.

1. I get blamed unfairly for issues in my relationship.
2. I often feel misunderstood by my partner.
3. I constantly feel criticised by my partner.
4. My partner makes me feel a lesser person.
5. I get upset about how much time my partner spends with their friends.
6. I believe that to keep my partner safe I need to know where my partner is.
7. I often get jealous of my partner.
8. I sometimes check my partner’s social media profiles
9. When I notice that my partner is upset, I try to put myself in their shoes so I can understand where they are coming from.
10. I am open to finding solutions and working out issues in the relationship.
11. I will admit to my partner if I know I am wrong about something.
12. I am open to my partner telling me about things I should do to improve our relationship.

Items should be randomised.

The scale is a 7-point Likert scale, ranging from 1 (strongly disagree) to 7 (strongly agree), is employed where high scores indicate high levels of the measured dimensions.

Defensiveness subscale = 1, 2, 3, 4.

Trust difficulty subscale = 5, 6, 7, 8.

Relationship skills subscale = 9, 10, 11, 12.

Reverse questions 9, 10, 11, and 12 to represent ‘Lack of relationship skills’.

Subscale scores between 4-11 (low)

Subscale scores between 12-20 (moderate)

Subscale scores between 21-28 (high)

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Straight from the heart: the lockdown-inspired love letter boom

Not since pre-internet days has there been such a resurgence in romantic letter writing. Elle Hunt hears the stories behind the handwritten dispatches – and whether the senders lived happily ever after IRL

In March last year, as lockdown was starting to seem inevitable, Lauren turned to her colleague Paul with a proposition: “Will you be my penpal?” Though they had worked together for two years, it was only recently that they had started messaging after hours. Now they had talked more over text than they had in person, making being together in the office a bit awkward.

Their conversation was not obviously flirtatious, at least not as Lauren, 26, saw it; but she was enjoying herself enough to want to keep up contact through the lockdown – however long it might last.

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‘I feel a bit rusty’: Has Covid killed our sex lives?

The end of lockdown was supposed to herald an explosion of pent-up desire and a bonkbuster of a summer. But it’s been way more complicated than that

This year was meant to be a replay of the roaring 20s, your hot girl or boy summer. We’d be hedonistic, bacchanalian and, above all, getting laid. All the pent-up energy of lockdowns, the only time it has ever been illegal for people from different households to have sex, would explode in one helluva bonkbuster summer. But has it panned out that way? Or has Covid ruined our sex lives?

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Crash and burn: the intense and fleeting romances of the Covid era

The unspoken rules of dating went out the window as people found themselves deeply alone – perhaps it’s no surprise these couples didn’t make it

On 4 July 2020, 34-year-old Samantha Higdon, a tech worker in Austin, Texas, was swiping through the dating app Hinge when she came across a profile that made her thumb pause and hover over the screen.

His smile struck her as warm and somehow familiar: “He just felt right,” she says. And so it began.

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I’m dating a woman old enough to be my mother. Should we split up?

Successful relationships don’t have to be ‘textbook’, but they do need purpose, drive, passion. Take a close look at what this woman means to you, advises Annalisa Barbieri

I am 31. Three years ago, I fell into a relationship with a woman who was 50. We lied about our ages (I said I was 35 and she said 45). What started off as a casual encounter has evolved into a relationship that isn’t exactly conventional. I don’t know many people who have been able to sustain a relationship with this big an age gap. My friends are all finding their partners, marrying and having kids, while I am still casually dating someone who is older than my mum.

The other problem is that she is married. She and her ex are separated and due to divorce at some point. It’s been a source of frustration that this woman, whom I love dearly, has the security of a home, living rent- and bill-free, while I work and pay for myself like most people my age. She also has children closer to me in age. I have never met them, thanks to embarrassment on her part and reluctance on mine. Her friends are in their 50s and 60s, while mine are in their 20s and 30s.

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‘Now I know love is real!’ The people who gave up on romance – then found it in lockdown

Dating apps can be difficult and daunting at the best of times, and many users give up on them entirely. But for some the pandemic was a chance to reassess their priorities, and they were able to forge a much deeper connection


When the country first went into lockdown, I – reluctantly – reloaded my dating app. With the world on pause and friends navigating the choppy waters of home schooling, I needed something to pass the time. I had never had much luck with the apps but, this time, I connected with Bart, a Dutch PR manager who lived in Windsor. To begin with, I assumed our conversation would follow the same pattern as most of my chats on the apps – last a few days, then fizzle out. To my surprise, this time was different. Instead of ending in the great bin-fire of Hinge matches lost, a friendship grew. We began to have regular Zoom cinema nights – watching the same film online and chatting about it afterwards. As we got to know each other, I began to notice how kind and thoughtful he was, and I appreciated his interest in my life. Slowly I found myself opening up, something that had not happened for years.

Before the world turned upside down, I was happy with my single life. I have never wanted children, and spent my time with friends, occasionally dipping my toes into the murky pool of online dating. The process was always the same. Dates lasted an hour or two, before I would slink off home to catch up on Love Island. Every few years I would find that elusive spark but it was always with a charismatic, gym-honed banker who would allude to a string of heartbroken ex-girlfriends and send me aubergine emojis at 3am. I knew this penchant for unavailable men was unhealthy, but despite my efforts, I somehow never managed – or bothered – to break the cycle.

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I’m worried my husband’s porn use has ruined his sex drive

He lied to me about watching porn and now only wants sex when he’s already aroused. It makes me feel like I no longer turn him on

When I married my husband, one of the conditions was: no pornography. We have been married 25 years. In 2018, I discovered my husband had been watching porn regularly for six years. I found out because it gave him erectile dysfunction. He said he would give it up, which he did for 18 months. Then he started again. I was furious. We went to counselling. My husband only wants to have what I consider lazy sex. He wants sex only when he wakes up with an erection. I have told him that it is important to me to make love and have sex at night, too. I am concerned the past long-term regular porn use has affected his desire for intimacy and lovemaking, since he wants sex only when he has already got a hard on. It makes me feel like I don’t turn him on.

This is not necessarily about you – or your husband’s desire, or lack of it, for you – and his pornography use may not be related to his needs regarding the timing of sex with you. Many men are so afraid of not being able to achieve an erection that they approach their partners for sex only when they are already aroused – and for him that may be mornings only.

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Something about my perfect partner isn’t doing it for me…

Love is something you do rather than a thing you fall into, says Philippa Perry

The question My partner and I are both 33. We met around two years ago. He is a kind, attractive person, and from the start it felt safe, relaxed and comfortable, but not especially sparky. This is still true. Yet the more we get to know each other, the more some things improve. Unlike some of my previous partners, he is sensitive, intelligent, consistently kind, caring and generous – qualities I really value and, having had many negative experiences of dating in the past, can appreciate.

The problem is, there is some part of me that is unsure and I don’t know why. I think I’d like someone who initiated more conversation or more adventure. I love and care for him very much. I enjoy his company and feel loved; we have good sex. It all seems to be there, but I want to feel more excited, more thrilled by the relationship. The sense of passion and excitement I had in previous relationships probably came from an unhealthy dynamic, because I never knew where I stood.

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My young son feels guilty about hurting his friend at school

Children are allowed to make mistakes – and they help us to learn, says Philippa Perry

The question A while back my son physically hurt a friend at school. He stopped when the teacher told him off. The friend has moved on, forgiven him and even invited him to his birthday party, but it is haunting my son as he still feels bad and really anxious about it. What happened was very much out of character and he can’t explain why he did it.

Here is my son’s letter to you: I am a nine-year-old boy. A couple of months ago, I hurt my friend by squeezing his neck tight. I don’t know why. Maybe I was overtired. Now I deeply regret this and have been feeling guilty almost every day since. I apologised and I keep apologising. The boy I hurt forgave me quickly, but I can’t seem to forgive myself. What doesn’t help is that I’m not religious so I can’t speak to God and ask him for forgiveness. After it happened, I was so distressed and quiet, but those feelings were bottled up inside me. Sometimes when I think about it my stomach hurts. I’m writing in the hope you’ll teach me how to move on.

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How we met: ‘I think he’s the best-looking guy I’ve ever met’

Ashleigh, 33 and Matt, 32, met at a fancy dress party in Vancouver. They live in London with their son and three-legged cat

Matt had been living in Vancouver for a year when he was invited to a student fancy dress party in the spring of 2014. “I’d moved to study for a master’s degree in entomology,” he says. “Coming from Ohio, it was the biggest city I’d ever lived in. I’d never even ridden a city bus before.” The event had a lumberjack theme, popular at Canadian house parties at the time. “Everyone had to dress up in plaid and overalls, and there was a giant wooden Jenga game. You had to wear a hard hat to play,” he says. When he spotted Ashleigh across the room, he couldn’t resist going to say hello. “I thought she looked just like Kate Bush. I’d recently discovered her music, so I went to speak to her.”

Ashleigh had moved to Vancouver from Toronto to be with her boyfriend, but it wasn’t working out. “I had a job in a museum, but was living in a cockroach-filled apartment and had no friends. I wanted to meet new people,” she says, and an acquaintance invited her to the party. When Matt approached, she was busy trying to negotiate the party playlist with another guest. “I used to have a student radio show and was really into music,” she says. They talked for a while before Matt got the courage to tell her she looked like Kate Bush. “People have actually said that about me before,” she says.

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Hot summer nights: ‘At a festival for the first time, I felt autonomous, desirable and free’

Estranged from my parents at 17, I jumped at the chance to go on holiday to Spain. I danced, drank too much – and had a row that taught me about friendship

When I was 17, there was a lot I knew little about. I didn’t know about burning in the sun or how to use euros; I had never swum in the ocean.

I was part of a big family and we were poor. As my parents were out of work, they couldn’t afford to take the nine of us on holiday.

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Hot summer nights: ‘I was alone on holiday, and this was my last night on the island …’

Heartbroken, sunburned and without my makeup, I felt totally lost. Perhaps the handsome stranger at my table could offer some excitement?

It was high summer on the Italian island of Procida, too hot but somehow still green, and I was eating dinner at a beachside cafe that spilled on to the black sand of the west-facing Spiaggia di Ciraccio.

I wasn’t supposed to be here. Ten days earlier, a long-building romance with a screenwriter from Milan had ended abruptly. It had begun when our knees touched in his car. Long emails full of agony and promise followed, made all the less real for jumping between English and Italian, but then stopped. A short trip to Naples to try things in a new context was cancelled. I was desperately sad, but had already booked my flight to Italy and, as it happened, a friend was staying on the island nearby. So, I tagged along.

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Modesty pouches and masturbation montages: the making of Sex Education

The rude, raucous and revolutionary comedy is back for another term. The stars and creators reveal how it became one of Netflix’s biggest British hits

Sex Education is back with a bang. Several, in fact. The Netflix hit’s third series starts with an epic sex montage. There’s sex in a car; in a living room; in a variety of teenage bedrooms. There are casual encounters, committed relationships, sex together, alone, virtually, playing the drums and with a sci-fi theme. It is a symphony of shags, an opera of orgasms, all set to the thumping beat of the Rubinoos’ I Think We’re Alone Now. As the old saying goes, there’s nowt so queer as folk, and Sex Education is determined to prove it.

The Netflix comedy-drama only began in 2019, but thanks to its cross-generational, multinational appeal, it already seems like part of the cultural landscape. The funny, frank, flamboyant show about teenage life, sex and identity is an awards magnet and has made stars of its young cast, who now front fashion campaigns and appear regularly on stage and cinema screens. Gillian Anderson and Asa Butterfield star as mother and son Jean and Otis Milburn, who live in an enviable, chalet-style house overlooking the gorgeous Wye valley.

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‘Everyone else knew weeks before we did’: readers who fell in love with their best friend

Two-thirds of couples start out as friends first. These readers were looking for love in all the wrong places – before they realised it was staring them right in the face

He was the first person I met at university, the day we moved into halls, and he tried to kiss me that night but I turned him down. I knew we’d be really good friends though, and I even joked that he would be godfather to my children one day. We stayed friends for a number of years as I careered from boyfriend to boyfriend, none of them suitable. Dave remained eternally single, focused on an army career. We stayed in touch and, not long after he returned from Afghanistan, we met up. He was different: he had grown up and looked hot! I saw him in a different light and realised I really fancied him. I was newly single and determined to remain so, but we went on a night out, snogged lots, and the rest is history. I’m so glad we had seven years of friendship – he’s still my best friend, we always make each other laugh and he’s such a wonderful husband and amazing father to our two children. Laura, insurance underwriter, Yorkshire

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