Emma Beddington

It’s hard not to feel personally attacked by some research (does that make me a raging narcissist? Probably). With crisps and now sitting downrecently ruled empirically bad, it seems science is coming for everything I hold dear. Now, my one true love is being targeted: staring at my phone.

A new study, discussed in the excellent Techno Sapiens newsletter, explored how using your phone to avoid stranger awkwardness makes you feel “worse than if you didn’t”. For the research, 395 strangers were split into groups and asked to wait together for a (pretend) test. Half had phones, half not, and participants assessed how they felt at five-minute intervals. The researchers’ theory was that non-phone people would enjoy their time more, but that the digital comfort blanket would feel better in the short term. That was wrong. “Phones failed to confer any detectable benefits.” Even in the first five minutes, non-phone users were happier. “People may be acting against their own best interest when they use phones in social situations,” the study concluded.

I do this constantly: waiting in shop queues, for buses or for choir to start. Rather than experience momentary awkwardness, I assume my best “I must deal with this” face and poke my phone with an air of importance. There’s a particular kind of shame in these moments because absolutely nothing I do is important. Nothing bad will happen if I delay answering the handful of work emails I get each day; I’m not running a power plant or a stroke ward. I’m mainly reading messages from the tireless Dutch Royal Mint flogging commemorative coins and companies trying to sell me perimenopause-appropriate athleisure; maybe a vegan protein powder company speculating what the royal family eats at Christmas. If you see me typing urgently, I’m commenting on a video of my best friend’s cat.

But technology gave us the option of staring at something instead of interacting – and we’ve seized it gratefully. A 2015 survey from the Pew Research Centre found that 73% of Americans have used their phones “for no particular reason, just for something to do”, while a 2018 survey found that 45% of teens have pretended to text (I reckon 100% of adults).

I’m not anti-phone; I worship my black rectangle of delight. I also think there’s a distinction between situations with reasonable scope for interaction, and those without: standing on a train station platform not looking at your phone feels genuinely suspect; when I’m out of battery, I worry I’ll be rounded up by the British Transport Police in a See it. Say it. Sorted operation. But if you could be talking to someone who might be receptive, surely it’s ruder not to try? A sad if unsurprising finding from a 2021 study from the University of Pisa was that phone use appears to be contagious: when one person started, others followed. By caving in to our desire to avoid awkwardness, we might be undermining not just our own wellbeing, but other people’s.

So I left my phone in my coat at pilates last week. The first minutes, when other people in the room were already in conversation, felt arduous. What if a distant acquaintance had posted a picture of a bird? Maybe someone on NextDoor needed me to weigh in on an inconsiderately parked car? What if – and that’s the crux of it, of course – no one wanted to talk to me? It was fine. A woman said she had trained her cat not to scratch things and I couldn’t resist asking her how (she shouted at it until it stopped). By the time we had cleared that up, the class was starting. The next day, engaging my seatmate on a packed bus in conversation (complaining about the packed bus, obviously), barely felt transgressive at all. Did I feel good? I felt less pathetic, that’s for sure.

So I’m keeping it up, and if I get shunned, it’s OK. I’ve decided that the true power move is not looking importantly at your phone anyway; it’s looking beatifically happy with your own thoughts, as if the internet can’t possibly compete with the richness therein. I’ll only be thinking about Dutch commemorative gold ducats or a stranger’s pet, but no one need ever know.

** Emma Beddington is a Guardian columnist

The Guardian, UK