On cue, the room fell silent. A man seated to my left at a long wooden table began to scratch at a piece of paper with a coloring pencil. To my right, another guy picked up a book. Across the way, someone buried themselves in a puzzle. We had gathered to take part in an unfamiliar ritual: being extremely offline.
I arrived at 6:45 pm that Monday evening at a nondescript office block in Dalston, a recently gentrified area of East London. I was greeted at the door by the event host, who was wearing a T-shirt that read, “The Offline Club.” I handed them my phone, which they stowed
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