🔗 Share this article

Shortly before the holidays, I experienced an remarkable incident. I believe it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but it's not important. The assembled crowd were solely men, which is relevant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The venue was a pub/restaurant enjoying a roaring trade. A lost daytime was had by all. Fine cuisine, fine libations and remarkably entertaining anecdotes about dentistry. Naturally, the time arrived for trips to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, looked to be gone a considerable while. I didn't ponder the reason this might have been, but when it became my turn, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

An Experience of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any woman here. I am obviously cognizant that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a convenience is the norm. Repeatedly have I seen women standing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the hassle of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of humiliation about standing there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the other sex glide through the entrance while I was forced to stand solemnly with others with my fellow fellas, angling away at whatever we had in our pockets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Art of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a complete form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant knowledge. Ladies, I presume, have developed skills to be rather good at it, exchanging polite remarks and an notable observation or two.

On this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that queue-based interaction is limited to the occasional exasperated look and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague informed me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations subsequently that chat tends to begin.

Had I been a woman, I’d refrain from on both niceties or reticence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to wait in a common queue merely for the chance to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the pure injustice of it. A valuable measure for any civilised community would be equal waiting times in wee queue durations. I’m researching studies on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Line

During my time in my queue, I endeavoured to spark some friendly chat started about this new state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something like: “Well, this represents an irksome variation, doesn’t it chaps?”

Someone grinned, someone else looked blank, a other man seemed awkward. Yet another shook his head as if this was one more example of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, quiet prevailed. An individual came out, adjusting his clothing. The line advanced a place. Two more men joined the back of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Exchange

A woman wafted out of the next-door restroom, all clean and at ease. It was all right for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, attempting to communicate recognition of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for support, you blighter. Come back when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and then I may give you the time of day.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She uttered anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I truly could not censure her.