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We'd been going through a flat patch for a while before we finally faced up to it and sat down to talk. In theory our relationship should have been fine: we have no children, we both have well-paid jobs and, until this dip, we had been lively and reasonably adventurous in bed. Sex was important to us both. But for some time it had become routine. I thought it might just be natural slowing down in our late thirties. Gill said it was because we came home tired; what we needed was a holiday. On an impulse, we took a week-end break in Prague but when we fucked it was self-conscious, as though we were trying too hard to please each other. When we returned home, we had to agree there was a problem.

It was Gill who suggested we should see a therapist. I wasn't keen, but at the same time I wanted to get back to the days when I might come home and find a pair of knickers on the kitchen table with a note saying: dinner's ready in the oven but don't turn it on yet - I'm getting turned on upstairs. And there she would be, lying back with a vibrator buzzing on low speed over her clitoris.

We discovered a couple of sex therapists in the yellow pages, but we didn't want someone local whom we might bump into the following day in Tesco's. The internet turned up a long list but nothing to indicate whether any particular one was better than another. More or less at random, we settled on a practice about sixty miles away. Gill telephoned while I listened on the extension. Reassured by a calm, ...

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