🔗 Share this article

In the run-up to the holidays, I experienced an unusual situation. I think it proved instructive. This occurred at a gathering of some old friends, who are, as it happens dentists, but that’s not pertinent. The attending crowd were exclusively male, which turns out to be relevant.

A Strange Scenario

The venue was a pub/restaurant enjoying a roaring trade. A lost afternoon was had by all. Fine food, fine beverages and remarkably amusing stories about dentistry. Inevitably, the point arrived for visits to the men's room. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, looked to be gone a considerable while. I didn't ponder the reason this was, but when it became my turn, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line knew.

A Taste of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect pity from any lady here. I am obviously aware that, for females, being forced to wait to use a convenience is standard practice. Repeatedly have I observed women standing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Apart from the hassle of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a hint of embarrassment about waiting there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly sobering to have a sample of it myself, watching the other sex glide through the door while I was forced to line up dutifully in queue with my mates, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and checking our handsets.

The Genre of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant familiarity. Females, I surmise, have learned to be rather good at it, sharing small talk and an interesting insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my circle. The prevailing view is that queue-based dialogue is confined to the occasional exasperated look and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate informed me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations subsequently that conversation tends to start up.

If I was a lady, I’d waste no time on both pleasantries or silence. If I was forced, over and over, to wait in a shared procession simply for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the sheer unfairness of it. A valuable measure for any modern culture would be balanced access in urination lining-up periods. I’m researching data on this.

Male Banter in the Queue

Back in my line, I attempted to get some friendly chat flowing about this unprecedented situation of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something along the lines of: “Ah, this represents an disagreeable change, right chaps?”

A fellow smiled, someone else appeared confused, a third seemed awkward. Yet another shook his head as if this was a further manifestation of modern woes, woke madness etc. Aside from that, silence reigned. A man came out, zipping up. The line shuffled up a place. Another two men joined the end of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Interaction

A woman glided out of the adjacent facility, all clean and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, attempting to express acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you jerk. Return when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and at that point I might give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She uttered a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I truly wouldn’t blame her.