Could you survive for a week without checking your email or looking at the internet? How about no mobile phone and making it two weeks?

So, I called someone up the other day. An acquaintance, of sorts. Someone I've spoken to by email countless times over the past two years, discussing work. Halfway through the conversation, it became obvious that we'd never actually spoken before.

"We must have spoken at some point," I say, a little awkwardly.

"Yes," she says, meaning no. "Maybe, a year ago?" Meaning never.

There's nothing shocking in that. I'm sure you've experienced much the same situation yourself. But surely the fact that it isn't shocking is something we should be shocked by? Why is it acceptable to not actually speak to the people we deal with on a daily basis? Why do we prefer faceless anonymity? Is it cowardice, or mere laziness?

Of course, the stock defence is efficiency. We're so busy, the line goes, that we don't have time for idle chitchat. We live – as we're constantly told – in super-accelerated times. But no one seems to have decided what to do with all this extra speed in our lives, apart from emailing each other amusing YouTube videos. We're so intent on consuming the new that we don't give ourselves the time to properly absorb it, let alone reflect upon it.

Ironically enough, this is something I've been reflecting on a fair bit recently. For a variety of reasons, top of which was an almost perfect alignment of stress-inducing greatest hits (trying to move house while my wife was pregnant, and having to deal with the worry of unexpected complications) I felt the need to slow down a little. And there doesn't seem to be an app for that.

I'm not just being facetious: more and more people appear to be thinking the same thing. Mobile phones have made us permanently contactable; remote emails mean that the work week stretches into the evenings, the weekends and even holidays. Under the barrage of tweets, Facebook invitations and instant messages, it has become almost impossible to switch off. The idealised version of social media is that it is like a river – you can just dip your toe in or you can dive in and get fully and joyously swept along with the current. Increasingly, I felt like I was drowning.

Already, as I discovered while wasting time on the internet, a report by Leeds University has claimed a link between increased internet use and stress. Recent research by Microsoft reveals that 99% of men use the internet every day, 80% would feel lost without it and 18% checked social networks on their phone before they had even got out of bed. Cosmopolitan even found that three out of four teenagers claim to feel stressed if they're not online.

But the internet isn't the problem: it's the people on it. In other words, me. I spend so much time on my laptop that my wife's taken to calling it my "square-headed girlfriend".

So I decided to do something about it. And in true self-help style, my road to redemption began with a single step: I quit Twitter. I'd already been worrying about how easily I let myself get swept up in predictable online flashmobs of moral outrage. For a nanosecond, joining a campaign against a Daily Mail columnist might have seemed like a worthy thing to do. But step away from the stampede of indignation and you realise you're just another one of the dumb cattle they've successfully prodded. And I'm not convinced by the supposed innate liberalism of Twitter – not if a vigilante campaign to out Jamie Bulger killer Jon Venables can become a tweeting trend.

But the tipping point came when someone who I thought I admired started announcing to me in 140 characters or less that Marvin Gaye was overrated. Pathetic, I know, but the mere fact I'd allowed myself to get annoyed by something so petty only hardened my conviction. It was obvious that I was the only one making myself angry. So I decided the best option was not to look, and cancelled my account. And then I just kept going. This need to wipe the slate clean, to de-clutter – or at least de-complicate – my life, took over. I needed a holiday from the world of stuff. So I decided on a very literal form of regressive therapy: I was going to go offline, to see if I could last a week without looking at a website or checking my email; to somehow re-connect by disconnecting.

Symbolically, my iPhone was the next thing to go (partly thanks to a friend's disdainful description of it: "Are those the things I see men stroking like little pets on the tube?"). My constant, portable window to the internet was too much of a temptation to carry round with me if I was to seriously attempt life offline, so I "de-simmed" it. (This is not an easy exercise in itself – you need a paperclip to get the sim card out and, as I discovered, paperclips aren't as abundant as they used to be in pre-digital days.)

If quitting Twitter and ditching the iPhone was relatively easy, Facebook made it as hard as possible, tugging on all the virtual heartstrings they could dredge up from their data. Having selected "deactivate account" from my settings, I was faced with a gallery of family and friends who I was told would miss me. Fortunately, as someone had tagged the contents of a barbecue grill with my friends' names, this was less of an emotional strain than was intended ("Andrew will miss you," pleaded a photo of a forlorn and slightly singed chicken drumstick). To alleviate my worries, I was given a final reminder: "Remember, you can reactivate at any time…" But by then the deed was done.

Next came the hard bit. For this to really work, I shouldn't tell anyone what I was doing. But then again, one of the great things about setting yourself an arbitrary task is that you get to decide on the ground rules, set the parameters and cheat accordingly. So I emailed a friend to explain why he wouldn't be getting any more emails from me for a while. His reply was to the point: "How on earth will you do any work?"

It was a fair question.

So I decided I'd wean myself off. On the first day, I allowed myself to look at my inbox, but not to send any replies. To start off, it was a doddle. I walked around the office and talked to people. I delegated. I rang people up. The first person I called – honestly – rang off with the words, "Thank you so much for calling me." See? Being offline was making me a nicer person already. And it's amazing how quickly misunderstandings can be defused when you put a voice to an anonymous email. For a start, there's no sarcasm font on email, and typing "ha ha!" does have the tendency to make you look a little unhinged.

But I won't pretend it wasn't without its difficulties. As time went by and I got into the habit of checking in with the people I needed to talk to, hopefully pre-empting any electronic conversations, I found ever more subtle pitfalls lying in wait. For instance, I'd never before considered the implied rudeness of talking to someone when you've clearly avoided reading their last email. I soon learned to brazen it out by saying, "Oh sorry, I've not opened my inbox yet."

It wasn't long before another one of those acquaintances-I've-never-met asked, "Don't you have it on in the background all the time?"

"Er, no, I find it easier to just check it occasionally – otherwise I never get any work done."

"That's a really good idea," they said.

Come to think of it, it is a good idea.

You only have to go back five years for the digital landscape to alter radically. Back to a strange offline world: pre-Facebook, pre-Twitter. (Interestingly enough, the latter predates the former. At least I'm pretty sure that's true. Obviously I haven't been able to Google it.) YouTube, which now has "well over a billion views a day" only came into existence in February 2005. Crucially, five years ago was also before third-generation phones taken their hold: when reading breaking news, checking your location on a map or updating your friends on your lunch wasn't something most of us did with a device we carried around in our pockets, if at all.

And I have fully embraced this new technology. I'm now of the generation that actually has a genuine circle of friends made on the internet. I discuss TV shows live on Twitter with them. I share photos and random thoughts on Facebook. I write several blogs. I've found myself inadvertently becoming part of an online community that works both as a support group and constant source of light relief – people I hold genuine affection for, resulting in long-standing friendships and at least one job.

But it's alarmingly easy to disappear completely. Or, more to the point, to live like we all used to. I swapped Facebook updates for lengthy phone calls (often via a phonebox; 50p gets you nowhere these days). I read more, I cooked more, I wrote a few postcards (and managed to forget to leave enough space for the stamp). I drew. I went on long walks. I drove to Hastings and ate chips on the beach. I watched more curling in the Winter Olympics than I would have thought humanly possible. I rediscovered the rare thrill of staying up until midnight on a Saturday night to see if my football team had won (we're in the Championship) or – better yet – only finding out when I opened the Sunday papers.

But, most of all, I did nothing –and it was great. I could physically feel my head rising above the water again as the stream of information subsided. My wife told me I was more fun to be around, probably because I wasn't tutting at my phone every 10 seconds.

Obviously, however relaxing, doing nothing isn't that much of a challenge. So, entering into the new spirit of face-to-face interaction, I went into the local branch of my bank to get some advice on savings accounts for our baby–to–be. You want interaction? They have meet-and-greeters at the door these days. Did you know that? I didn't know that. It's like entering a posh hotel, right down to the people complaining about interest rates.

"Hello sir!" beamed the efficient-looking lady, efficiently. "What can we do you for?" I swear she said that. And she had a clipboard, in case I needed prompting. "Hi," I beamed back. "I'd like to talk to someone about opening a savings account. I'm a First Direct customer and I'm not sure…"

"Ah," she said. "Let me stop you there. If you want to discuss a First Direct savings account, you'll need to call them."

OK, that's within the rules. So I called my bank. Obviously, First Direct's entire USP is that you deal with them on the phone. And they're very good at it. Their call centres play on the personal touch that most banks lost years ago (I switched to them after my previous local high street bank literally became a trendy wine bar). But still, it's good practice. The nice First Direct lady (comforting Scottish voice) cheerfully chatted away to me about savings accounts, and soon went off piste, doling out free baby advice, telling me how to deal with everything from in-laws to modern prams.

Eventually, I had so much friendly advice that it was hard to make sense of (including "Ooh, you're going to have to put away 50% of your earnings for the next 25 years! Ha ha!" which would have looked downright rude on an email). So I asked her if she could send me the details.

"It's all on the website, sir."

"Yes, but I'd really like to be sent it, so I can take some time to read through it."

After a brief, affable lecture about how paperless banking helps the environment, she relented; but not without one parting shot.

"If you do decide you want to go for an ISA, don't forget you'll have to set it up online."

Of coursE, IT'S VIRTUALLY impossible – not to mention pointless – to live and work entirely offline in 2010. But if I was hoping to achieve anything from what had now developed into two weeks offline, this was it: if you're finding life on the information superhighway is getting too much, just pull over to the hard shoulder and stretch your legs for a bit. It doesn't have to be for a fortnight, but you can manage an hour. And all of a sudden, what with the speed we all work at these days, that seemingly insurmountable problem will have passed you by.

You need to reclaim the internet – to remember it's there to make your life easier, not to complicate it further. I've learned to no longer jump to attention at every "ping" in my inbox. I've returned to my iPhone, but I've pin-protected the web browser, which acts as an extra idiot-proof barrier, and set my email so that I have to manually "push" new messages (and it sounds rather quaint describing it that way, like I'm trying to squeeze it all through a virtual letter box). What's more, I've started buying a proper newspaper every day from a man who looks me in the eye and says, "Good morning sir."

I try to reply to emails with a phone call. I've been welcomed back to Facebook with a delighted automatic email, but I'm keeping it strictly friends and family. And I use my work email for what it was intended. It has been a hard lesson to learn, but just because a river is there you don't have to throw off all your clothes and jump in.

POSTSCRIPT

After two weeks, when I turned my email back on, this is what I found in my inbox:

WORK 307 EMAILS

■ 73 of which were an ongoing conversation between friends I'd been cc'ed into, discussing a leaving gift for a friend (sorry I missed it, Jimmy).

■ Almost exactly the same number (75) were from colleagues specifically discussing work.

■ 53 were press releases that could conceivably have been of relevance to my job (and, as I work on an entertainment title, I'm including one headed "Danny Dyer fancies Ginger Nicola from Girls Aloud!")

■ Of the rest, 80% were unsolicited press releases and spam, while the remainder were emails from friends or general internal announcements.

HOME 471 EMAILS

■ 85 were from people I actually knew. (Including one apparently from me, generously offering myself 84% off Viagra pills – which seemed an oddly precise number.)

■ 386 messages went directly into my junk folder (including this spam from an online marketing company: "Email Productivity – save at least half hour per day. Almost all email users are spending too much time on too many emails…"

GRAND TOTAL 778 EMAILS

Nine-tenths of which I could happily delete without reading beyond the subject line.

Second life: Eva Wiseman attempts to live entirely online



The internet – my one true love, my only foe; it giveth, sure, but it taketh awayeth, too: whole sunny days spent reading the Twitter feeds of a minor reality star, whole weekends spent fretting over the opinions of a vengeful blogger, and cash, which feels more like Monopoly money when it's spent online on novelty kitchenware and dresses that don't quite fit. But how would it feel to survive online only? Could I give up books, newspapers, TV, telephones? Would my contact lenses dry out? Would my soul?

My internet odyssey began on a damp and newsless Tuesday morning. Around this time, on the train, I like to read a story. But who needs books? Who needs the warm, bready smell of thumbed paper, receipts for bookmarks? The New Yorker fiction podcast features meaty-voiced authors reading their favourite short stories in a growling lullaby style. Afterwards they discuss it and you're transported to a tiered lecture theatre in an American film, falling slightly in love with the speaker, whose concise criticism makes you feel both cleverer and stupider. So that's books obsolete, ho hum.

This week, 19-year-old Alexander Guttenplan captained his college on University Challenge. Worshipful Facebook groups for him have sprung up overnight like Portaloos - one links to a letter archived on the Observer site that he wrote to the paper aged 11, furious about proposed changes to the Science Museum. His followers, the Guttenfans, are building support for his appearance in the finals, with 1,200 members of one Facebook group planning viewing parties. The internet's good at getting people to come together, at campaigning. One click and the world changes. Two clicks and it changes back.

Instead of phones I rely on Gmail chat. By clicking on a friend's name, all conversations can be had in a 3-inch box. I learn quickly that I am too slow for this, too 2008. Conversations are had at the speed of light – as fast as I form a bon mot and type it, pun falling over pun, the moment's gone, the joke's over.

Though I am an accomplished eBayer, I've never bought groceries online. My local Sainsbury's beckons when I've run out of tins, but online I can rise above my humble neighbourhood. Online I can shop at Waitrose. Waitrose! Stage name: Ocado. Unfortunately it wouldn't let me register. Perhaps it smelled my ghetto postcode. I gave up after half an hour and settled for browsing their food categories, then registered at Sainsburys.co.uk which, alongside Mr and Mrs, offers the option of Countess in its title bar. I shopped, then learnt they couldn't deliver for three days, by which time I'd have starved.

Mournfully, I cancelled my order and made some toast. Waiting for it to pop, I gazed out of my window at the courtyard and the leafless tree, a blue carrier bag flying from its branches. I saw the sun sneak over the flats opposite and cursed myself for not upgrading to an internet-enabled phone. The adventures I could have had. Instead, I crawl back under my laptop and watch Twitter squeaking about Pineapple Dance Studios for a little while.

Sometimes the internet is too fast, and sometimes too slow. Sometimes it delivers news the second it happens, other times it's a kidney, filtering facts so you're left with just, well, waste. But living purely online is easier than it should be. The only difficult moment was at dusk, when I spoke out loud for the first time and sounded like Crazy Frog, slowed down.