🔗 Share this article

In the run-up to Christmas, I encountered an remarkable episode. I feel it proved instructive. This took place at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dentists, but this isn't relevant. The present group were all blokes, which proves to be relevant.

A Novel Situation

The venue was a pub/restaurant experiencing a brisk business. A forgotten afternoon was shared by the group. Nice cuisine, nice beverages and unexpectedly amusing anecdotes about oral health. Naturally, the point came for excursions to the male facilities. Those who went, I vaguely observed, seemed to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this might have been, but when it was me next, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the female facilities, but a great long one for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line recognised.

A Sample of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any female reader here. I am acutely conscious that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is standard practice. Repeatedly have I witnessed women waiting in a line while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Beyond the annoyance of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a hint of indignity about lingering there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was truly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, watching the women breeze through the portal while I was forced to stand solemnly in line with my mates, angling away at something we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant familiarity. Females, I surmise, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, sharing pleasantries and an interesting comment or two.

On this I’ve polled some female friends of my knowledge. The general agreement is that within-the-line interaction is limited to the odd eye roll and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate informed me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations later that discussion tends to start up.

Had I been a lady, I’d refrain from on either small talk or reticence. If I was compelled, time and again, to wait in a public line simply for the chance to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the pure injustice of it. A handy benchmark for any advanced community would be balanced access in wee queue durations. I’m looking for research on this.

Comradely Banter in the Line

Back in my line, I endeavoured to spark some friendly chat flowing about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something like: “Well, this makes an irksome change, doesn’t it boys?”

A fellow smiled, a second appeared confused, a other man seemed awkward. Another shook his head as if this was yet another symptom of modern woes, political correctness etc. Otherwise, quiet reigned. A man exited, zipping up. The line shuffled up a spot. Two more men joined the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Moment

A woman glided out of the adjacent restroom, all clean and at ease. It was all right for some. I beamed bashfully at her, attempting to convey an understanding of this reversed scenario. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you bastard. Return when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and at that point I could give you the time of day.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She uttered anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I really could not blame her.