🔗 Share this article

In the run-up to the festive season, I had an unusual incident. I believe it proved instructive. This occurred at a meeting of some old friends, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but this isn't important. The present group were all blokes, which proves to be key.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The venue was a tavern experiencing a roaring trade. A lost daytime was shared by the group. Nice fare, good libations and unexpectedly humorous stories about teeth. As expected, the time arrived for excursions to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, seemed to be gone a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on the reason this might have been, but when it came to my turn, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering knew.

A Sample of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any woman here. I am fully cognizant that, for women, needing to line up to use a convenience is the norm. Repeatedly have I observed women queuing in a row while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Apart from the annoyance of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about waiting there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was truly sobering to get a taste of it myself, seeing the women glide through the door while I was compelled to stand solemnly in queue with my mates, angling away at whatever we had in our jackets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a complete form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little experience. Females, I imagine, have learned to be rather good at it, sharing polite remarks and an engaging comment or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my circle. The consensus is that queue-based interaction is confined to the rare weary glance and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate informed me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations later that chat tends to begin.

Had I been a woman, I’d refrain from on both pleasantries or silence. If I was obliged, over and over, to stand in a common queue simply for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the pure inequity of it. A useful metric for any civilised community would be gender parity in wee queue durations. I’m researching research on this.

Comradely Chat in the Line

Back in my queue, I attempted to initiate some male camaraderie started about this new state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something along the lines of: “So, this represents an irksome variation, right boys?”

Someone smiled, another seemed nonplussed, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further symptom of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, silence reigned. A man exited, fastening his trousers. The group shuffled up a spot. Two more men took a place at the back of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Moment

A woman emerged out of the neighbouring toilet, all clean and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, trying to communicate recognition of this upside-down situation. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for support, you bastard. Return when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and then I might give you the time.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She didn’t say a word. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I really would not censure her.