Dearest Reader,
I understand there was a small disturbance at the Inn recently.
Apparently, the internet disappeared.
Not the electricity, mind you. The lamps still worked, the kettle could still be boiled, and there was certainly no shortage of comfortable places to sit.
Nevertheless, one might have thought the entire establishment had been cut off from civilisation.
I am told that several guests spent a considerable amount of time checking their devices, as though a sufficiently stern expression might persuade the connection to return.
Even our dear Mikasa was rather put out. She had intended to purchase autumn decorations for the Front Desk and was most displeased to discover that the internet had other plans.
I sympathise, of course. A woman ought to be permitted to consider a new arrangement of seasonal flowers without technological interference.
But I must confess that I found the whole affair rather interesting.
When did we become so terribly uncomfortable with being unavailable?
There was a time when leaving the house meant precisely that. One left the house. Anyone wishing to speak with you would simply have to wait until you returned.
And somehow, civilisation continued.
We read books without interrupting ourselves to investigate the author's entire life. We listened to music without being offered twelve other songs we might prefer. We sat with friends without consulting a glowing little rectangle every time the conversation paused.
I don't recall those pauses being particularly troublesome.
Sometimes someone poured another cup of tea.
Sometimes someone remembered a story.
And sometimes we simply sat together, enjoying the extraordinary luxury of having nowhere else we needed to be.
Now, I am not opposed to progress. Far from it.
Without the internet, this charming Inn might never have opened its doors to so many guests. Mikasa has created something rather lovely here, and I should hate to see her dream limited by geography.
But there is a difference between having the world available to you and feeling obliged to attend to it every waking moment.
One needn't answer every message immediately.
One needn't know every piece of news before luncheon.
And one certainly needn't turn a perfectly pleasant evening into an exercise in catching up.
I understand that once everyone stopped checking the connection, the evening improved considerably.
There were games, music, conversation, and a good deal of colouring.
Imagine that. A room full of people enjoying themselves without requiring anyone to log in.
Perhaps the outage was not entirely unfortunate after all.
So I have a small suggestion for you, dear Guest.
Choose an evening this week and make yourself unavailable for a little while.
Not to everyone, naturally. Emergencies are emergencies, and one must be sensible.
But to the endless invitations to scroll, browse, compare, purchase, and discover what everyone else is doing.
Put the telephone aside.
Find something you enjoy that requires nothing more than your own attention.
Read a few chapters. Write a letter. Play a game. Listen to an album. Sit on the porch and watch the evening arrive.
And should you find yourself wondering what you might be missing online, consider the possibility that you are presently enjoying something rather more important.
Your own life.
Yours, with considerable affection,
Lady Staywell
P.S. I am reliably informed that the autumn decorations remain unpurchased. I expect Mikasa will remedy that situation shortly. One mustn't allow a philosophical revelation to interfere indefinitely with a beautifully appointed Front Desk.