The Last Person Who Logs Off

She is, by her own cheerful admission, the last person she knows who logs off. Not in the wellness-retreat sense, not as a thirty-day cleanse to be documented and monetised, but permanently and without ceremony: the accounts deleted years ago, the smartphone swapped for a device that does almost nothing, the evenings returned to a length she describes as "frankly suspicious."

I had expected a zealot. What I found was someone faintly embarrassed to be interesting for so little.

"I didn't quit the internet to make a point," she says, in a kitchen with no screens in it, which I keep noticing the way you notice a missing tooth. "I quit because I was tired all the time and I couldn't work out why, and then I worked out why."

The texture of her life is strange to report on precisely because there is nothing to report. She is not building a brand around the absence. She has no thoughts on your phone habits. When I ask what she does with the reclaimed hours she looks genuinely puzzled, as though I'd asked what she does with her own blood.

"This is going to sound mad," she says finally. "But I think I just live in it. The time. I'm not trying to fill it or capture it or - what's the word - content it. It's just hours, and they're mine, and nobody else is in the room." She is, I realise, the most relaxed person I have interviewed in a decade. She is also entirely unsearchable, which means that as far as the rest of the world is concerned, this conversation is the only proof she exists.