🔗 Share this article

In the run-up to Christmas, I had an remarkable episode. I believe it did me good. This happened at a get-together of some old friends, who are incidentally dental professionals, but this isn't important. The present party were exclusively male, which is relevant.

A Strange Situation

The location was a tavern experiencing a brisk business. A wasted daytime was shared by the group. Nice fare, good beverages and surprisingly amusing stories about oral health. Inevitably, the point came for excursions to the gents. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, looked to be away a considerable while. I didn't contemplate why this might have been, but when it was my go, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men's. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line recognised.

An Experience of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for empathy from any woman here. I am acutely aware that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I seen women waiting in a line while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Beyond the hassle of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a hint of humiliation about waiting there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was truly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, watching the women walk straight through the entrance while I was obliged to stand solemnly in line with my companions, looking distractedly at something we had in our jackets and checking our mobile devices.

The Art of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant experience. Ladies, I presume, have become adept to be rather good at it, engaging in small talk and an notable insight or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that queue-based interaction is restricted to the occasional eye roll and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate mentioned it’s merely at the hand-washing stations later that discussion tends to begin.

Were I a woman, I’d refrain from on both pleasantries or reticence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to wait in a common queue only for the chance to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the pure unfairness of it. A handy metric for any modern society would be equal waiting times in urination waiting times. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Line

Back in my wait, I endeavoured to spark some friendly chat flowing about this novel state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something to the effect of: “Ah, this is an irksome difference, right boys?”

A fellow grinned, a second seemed nonplussed, a third appeared embarrassed. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another symptom of broken Britain, woke madness etc. For the most part, silence ensued. A man emerged, fastening his trousers. The queue shuffled up a spot. Another two men entered the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Exchange

A lady wafted out of the adjacent restroom, all clean and at ease. It was all right for some. I beamed apologetically at her, trying to communicate an understanding of this upside-down scenario. Her response was: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you jerk. Return when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and then I may give you the time of day.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She said a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly could not fault her.