🔗 Share this article

Shortly before the festive season, I encountered an unusual situation. I feel it did me good. This took place at a get-together of some old friends, who are, as it happens dentists, but this isn't important. The present crowd were all blokes, which turns out to be relevant.

A Strange Situation

The establishment was a bar and eatery enjoying a roaring trade. A lost daytime was had by all. Good cuisine, good drink and remarkably humorous tales about teeth. Naturally, the moment arrived for trips to the male facilities. Those who went, I vaguely observed, looked to be gone a considerable while. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it was me next, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line recognised.

An Experience of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any lady here. I am fully cognizant that, for females, having to queue to use a restroom is standard practice. Repeatedly have I witnessed women waiting in a line while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Beyond the annoyance of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about standing there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was truly sobering to have a sample of it myself, watching the opposite gender walk straight through the portal while I was obliged to stand solemnly with others with my companions, looking distractedly at something we had in our pockets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a whole conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little familiarity. Women, I surmise, have learned to be quite proficient at it, sharing small talk and an notable insight or two.

On this I’ve consulted some women of my acquaintance. The consensus is that queue-based interaction is limited to the rare weary glance and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague mentioned it’s merely at the washbasins afterwards that chat tends to start up.

Were I a lady, I’d waste no time on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to queue in a shared procession only for the chance to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the utter unfairness of it. A valuable measure for any advanced society would be balanced access in toilet lining-up periods. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Comradely Chat in the Queue

Returning to my queue, I endeavoured to initiate some brotherly banter flowing about this novel state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something to the effect of: “Ah, this is an disagreeable variation, doesn’t it boys?”

One person grinned, a second looked blank, a third individual looked sheepish. Yet another shook his head as if this was one more manifestation of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, stillness prevailed. A man came out, adjusting his clothing. The group shuffled up a position. A couple more men joined the end of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Exchange

A woman glided out of the neighbouring restroom, all fragrant and relaxed. It was all right for some. I smiled bashfully at her, endeavouring to express acknowledgement of this reversed state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for support, you blighter. Come back when you’ve done this on a regular basis and at that point I could give you the time of day.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She said anything. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I honestly would not blame her.