Some are using Final Fantasy and GTA Online as dating sites and long-time lovers are finding comfort and connection through Resident Evil. Could video games be the ultimate relationship tool?

Last week, Radio 4’s Woman’s Hour talked about the role of women in the video games industry. It featured interviews with gaming insiders, from esports presenter Frankie Ward to members of the inclusive online community Black Girl Gamers. It was wonderful to hear so many disparate, expert views on games culture being given so much time on the show.

One of my favourite moments was when presenter Nuala McGovern read out some listener responses to the question: why do you play video games? “I don’t think there’s enough recognition of gaming as an activity for couples,” one replied. “My husband and I bonded over our shared love of gaming. Our honeymoon was playing Borderlands 2 while we saved for a flat deposit, and now, with a young child, we explore stories, we visit new worlds, we solve mysteries … There is an underappreciated romance to gaming – we communicate, encourage, collaborate and celebrate together. It’s a joy.”

Study finds that only 9.5% of fungal biodiversity hotspots fell within existing protected areas

The underground network of fungi that underpins the planet’s ecosystems needs urgent conservation action by politicians, a research organisation has said.

Scientists from the Society for the Protection of Underground Networks (Spun) have created the first high-resolution biodiversity maps of Earth’s underground mycorrhizal fungal ecosystems.

Study finds that only 9.5% of fungal biodiversity hotspots fell within existing protected areas

The underground network of fungi that underpins the planet’s ecosystems needs urgent conservation action by politicians, a research organisation has said.

Scientists from the Society for the Protection of Underground Networks (Spun) have created the first high-resolution biodiversity maps of Earth’s underground mycorrhizal fungal ecosystems.

‘When Mustapha leaned forward to look into this old well in eastern Morocco, it seemed part ritual – and part desperation’

I travelled to Merzouga in east Morocco three years ago, hoping to photograph some wall drawings and writings I had seen there earlier – markings that showed the distance from the village to Timbuktu, in Mali, by camel. But when I arrived, the markings had vanished. Faced with this absence, I found myself seeking a new story, something unplanned.

Mustapha was my guide that day. At first, he took me along the typical tourist trails, which didn’t speak to my photographic interests. Then he suggested we explore the sand dunes. Initially, I wasn’t particularly interested in these either, but then we came across this old well. I set up my camera, a 1972 Hasselblad 500, and my tripod. As I started to photograph the well, Mustapha stepped forward, instinctively leaning in to look inside. I hadn’t imagined him in the picture but he didn’t pay attention to me. That spontaneous gesture – part ritual, part desperation – transformed the scene completely. It felt sacred, as though he were praying for the return of something essential: water.

‘When Mustapha leaned forward to look into this old well in eastern Morocco, it seemed part ritual – and part desperation’

I travelled to Merzouga in east Morocco three years ago, hoping to photograph some wall drawings and writings I had seen there earlier – markings that showed the distance from the village to Timbuktu, in Mali, by camel. But when I arrived, the markings had vanished. Faced with this absence, I found myself seeking a new story, something unplanned.

Mustapha was my guide that day. At first, he took me along the typical tourist trails, which didn’t speak to my photographic interests. Then he suggested we explore the sand dunes. Initially, I wasn’t particularly interested in these either, but then we came across this old well. I set up my camera, a 1972 Hasselblad 500, and my tripod. As I started to photograph the well, Mustapha stepped forward, instinctively leaning in to look inside. I hadn’t imagined him in the picture but he didn’t pay attention to me. That spontaneous gesture – part ritual, part desperation – transformed the scene completely. It felt sacred, as though he were praying for the return of something essential: water.

We’re looking to speak to people who quit their jobs in an unprofessional blaze of glory – and are keen to find out what came next

Some of us have dreamed up the pettiest way to resign from our job, and an increasing number of people are following through. Revenge quitting, where you bid adieu to your place of work in an unprofessional blaze of glory, is on the rise. A recent survey by Reed Group found that 15% of UK workers had revenge quit, with some handing in their resignations at 4:55pm on a Friday and others calling it quits during the busiest (and most inconvenient) periods.

Have you quit your job to the pre-planned fury of a bad boss? Do you have any fun tales about your pettiest resignation? If so, we would like to hear from you. Why did you dislike your workplace? What pushed you over the edge? How did you make your exit as inconvenient as possible? Did it impact your ability to get a job in the future?