🔗 Share this article

Shortly before the holidays, I encountered an remarkable episode. I think it was beneficial for me. This happened at a gathering of several mates, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but it's not important. The present group were solely men, which is significant.

A Strange Scenario

The venue was a pub/restaurant experiencing a excellent custom. A wasted afternoon was had by all. Fine food, nice libations and remarkably humorous anecdotes about teeth. As expected, the point arrived for excursions to the gents. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, seemed to be away a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this might have been, but when it came to me next, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line knew.

A Taste of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for pity from any female reader here. I am acutely aware that, for women, having to queue to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I seen women standing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Beyond the inconvenience of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a hint of embarrassment about standing there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was truly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the women breeze through the entrance while I was obliged to stand solemnly in line with my mates, looking distractedly at anything we had in our jackets and scrolling through our phones.

The Genre of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little experience. Females, I surmise, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging pleasantries and an interesting insight or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some women of my circle. The consensus is that queue-based communication is limited to the rare weary glance and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate mentioned it’s only at the hand-washing stations afterwards that conversation tends to begin.

Had I been a female, I’d waste no time on either small talk or reticence. If I was obliged, over and over, to queue in a common queue only for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the utter inequity of it. A useful measure for any modern society would be balanced access in wee queue durations. I’m researching studies on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Line

During my time in my queue, I endeavoured to initiate some friendly chat going about this novel circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and said something like: “Ah, this is an disagreeable change, doesn’t it chaps?”

Someone smiled, someone else looked blank, a third individual looked sheepish. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was a further manifestation of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Aside from that, silence prevailed. An individual emerged, adjusting his clothing. The line moved forward a spot. Two more men took a place at the back of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Moment

A woman glided out of the adjacent toilet, all fresh and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I grinned bashfully at her, endeavouring to convey an understanding of this upside-down situation. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve done this another hundred times and only then I may give you the time.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She uttered nothing. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I truly wouldn’t fault her.