I’m into the second day of our annual Christmas camp in a youth hostel with next to no Internet. I’m actually blogging this lying on the floor in my bedroom with my phone balanced on a book on the box around the water pipes. And I’m doing better than most people who haven’t found any signal at all.
I’ve done crochet. I’ve read 1 1/2 books. I’ve wound a skein of wool into centre pull balls and started to make myself a shrug on a sock loom. I’ve had conversations with people, sat on the floor to play with children, and I’ve twitched.
Because I miss the Internet. I miss being able to Google the nearest supermarket. I’ve been getting emails that I can’t deal with because I can’t get into the library site to renew our books. I can’t go online to browse the shops, to read the news, to check the weather.
I don’t like it. And I can’t help feeling that that isn’t actually all wrong. Is it? I cope perfectly well at Kentwell without connection, but I thought I was going to have wifi access here and that I’d be able to write articles while sitting with napping child and then publish them from the common room. But no. So it’s about expectations. I expected one thing and got another. And it’s not made me happy.