🔗 Share this article

Just before the holidays, I experienced an extraordinary incident. I think it proved instructive. This happened at a get-together of some old friends, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but this isn't relevant. The assembled crowd were exclusively male, which proves to be relevant.

A Novel Predicament

The establishment was a pub/restaurant enjoying a roaring trade. A wasted afternoon was had by all. Fine fare, fine beverages and unexpectedly humorous stories about teeth. As expected, the moment arrived for excursions to the male facilities. Those who went, I half-noticed, appeared to be gone a long time. I didn't contemplate why this might have been, but when it became me next, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue recognised.

A Sample of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any female reader here. I am obviously aware that, for females, needing to line up to use a public toilet is the norm. Repeatedly have I seen women standing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Apart from the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a hint of embarrassment about waiting there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was profoundly bracing to have a sample of it myself, seeing the women walk straight through the entrance while I was forced to stand solemnly in queue with my mates, fiddling at anything we had in our jackets and scrolling through our phones.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a entire form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little familiarity. Women, I presume, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging pleasantries and an interesting comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my circle. The consensus is that queue-based communication is limited to the rare weary glance and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague informed me it’s merely at the sinks afterwards that conversation tends to break out.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on either pleasantries or silence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to wait in a public line only for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the sheer injustice of it. A valuable metric for any modern community would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m seeking out research on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Line

Returning to my wait, I tried to get some friendly chat going about this new circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and said something along the lines of: “Well, this represents an unpleasant variation, isn't it boys?”

A fellow grinned, another seemed nonplussed, a other man seemed awkward. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another manifestation of broken Britain, political correctness etc. For the most part, quiet ensued. Someone exited, fastening his trousers. The group advanced a spot. A couple more men joined the end of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Moment

A female glided out of the adjacent toilet, all fragrant and at ease. It was just fine for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, attempting to express recognition of this topsy-turvy scenario. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you blighter. Return when you’ve endured this another hundred times and then I could give you the time.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She uttered a word. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I really wouldn’t fault her.