🔗 Share this article

In the run-up to the festive season, I encountered an unusual incident. I believe it did me good. This happened at a gathering of some old friends, who happen to be dentists, but that’s not important. The present group were exclusively male, which turns out to be significant.

A Strange Situation

The location was a bar and eatery doing a brisk business. A wasted daytime was had by all. Good cuisine, nice beverages and surprisingly amusing tales about oral health. Inevitably, the moment dawned for trips to the gents. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, looked to be absent a long time. I didn't ponder why this might have been, but when it came to my turn, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

An Experience of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect empathy from any female reader here. I am acutely conscious that, for women, needing to line up to use a convenience is the norm. How many times have I witnessed women queuing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Beyond the annoyance of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about standing there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was decidedly sobering to get a taste of it myself, watching the opposite gender breeze through the door while I was compelled to stand solemnly with others with my mates, angling away at something we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a whole form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal experience. Ladies, I imagine, have learned to be rather good at it, exchanging pleasantries and an interesting comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some female friends of my circle. The consensus is that within-the-line dialogue is limited to the occasional weary glance and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate informed me it’s exclusively at the sinks later that discussion tends to begin.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or silence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to stand in a public line merely for the chance to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the sheer unfairness of it. A useful metric for any civilised culture would be equal waiting times in toilet queue durations. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Procession

During my time in my wait, I attempted to get some friendly chat going about this novel circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something like: “So, this represents an irksome variation, isn't it chaps?”

A fellow chuckled, someone else looked blank, a third appeared embarrassed. A further person shook his head as if this was a further symptom of broken Britain, political correctness etc. For the most part, stillness reigned. An individual came out, adjusting his clothing. The queue advanced a place. Two more men joined the end of it. I sighed.

A Silent Exchange

A woman glided out of the neighbouring toilet, all fresh and unhurried. It was all right for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, attempting to communicate acknowledgement of this reversed scenario. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and then I may give you the time of day.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She said nothing. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly would not fault her.