The man in the paper shop

So far this book has been about friends, the people whose names are in your phone. There's another kind of contact that people in the quiet tend to overlook, and it's the easiest place to begin.

Gillian Sandstrom and Elizabeth Dunn studied what sociologists call weak ties. These are the people you know slightly. Think of the man in the paper shop, the woman you nod to at the bus stop, or the neighbour two doors down. The colleague from another floor is one, and so is the person who's always at the pool at the same time as you. In one study they had students keep track of their interactions with classmates. On days when a student talked to more classmates than was usual for them, they reported being happier and feeling a greater sense of belonging. Two further studies widened the net to all daily interactions, close and slight alike. Interactions with weak ties were again related to social and emotional wellbeing, alongside those with close friends and family.

These are studies of what goes with what, day by day, and they can't prove that the chats caused the better days. But they fit ordinary experience. Most people know the small lift of an exchange with someone who recognises them. "Morning. The usual? Did you get that fence sorted?" It takes forty seconds. You walk out feeling slightly more like a person who belongs somewhere.

For someone in the quiet, weak ties have three things going for them.

They're low risk. If you say "cold one today" to the man in the paper shop and he grunts, you've lost nothing. No friendship is at stake, and there's no gap to explain and no tally.

They're available daily. You might only have four or five lapsed friends to contact, but you pass a dozen slight acquaintances every week.

And they're practice. This matters more than it sounds. Chapter 8 described how the quiet makes a person warier and quicker to see rejection. The best correction for that is a run of small exchanges that go fine. Each one is a piece of evidence against the loop. People are, on the whole, pleased to be spoken to, and you're perfectly able to do it. After a fortnight of saying a sentence more than you need to in shops and lifts, sending a message to your friend from the old office feels less like stepping off a cliff.

Aknin and Sandstrom found something close to this in their final study, which chapter 13 describes. What got more people to contact an old friend was a few minutes of practice on easier targets first. Trying to persuade them that it would go well hadn't worked.

There's also a longer game here. Friendships are made out of time. Jeffrey Hall studied people who had recently moved, and first-year students, and looked at how acquaintances turn into friends. The number of hours people spent together was associated with how close they became, and time spent on leisure activities together predicted closeness too. It wasn't only hours. The kind of talk mattered as well. But the raw material was time in each other's company. Every friend you have was once a weak tie who got enough hours. The neighbour two doors down could become a friend after three years of chats over the hedge and an eventual cup of tea. That only happens if somebody says something over the hedge to begin with.

If you're not ready to message the name in the list, start here. Tomorrow, say one more sentence than the transaction needs, to one person you half know. Ask the man in the paper shop how his week's been. Tell the neighbour that her roses have done well. You're not trying to make a friend. You're showing yourself, in the smallest way available, that a first move is survivable and usually pleasant. That's the fact the wait has been keeping from you.