🔗 Share this article

In the run-up to the holidays, I had an remarkable situation. I think it proved instructive. This happened at a meeting of some old friends, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The assembled crowd were all blokes, which proves to be key.

A Strange Situation

The establishment was a pub/restaurant experiencing a brisk business. A forgotten session was had by all. Good cuisine, nice drink and surprisingly humorous tales about teeth. As expected, the time dawned for excursions to the male facilities. Those who departed, I half-noticed, seemed to be absent a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on why this was, but when it became me next, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Taste of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect pity from any lady here. I am acutely aware that, for females, having to queue to use a public toilet is the norm. How many times have I seen women standing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the hassle of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a hint of indignity about lingering there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, observing the other sex walk straight through the portal while I was obliged to stand solemnly in queue with my fellow fellas, fiddling at something we had in our trouser pockets and checking our phones.

The Art of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a whole form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little knowledge. Females, I presume, have learned to be quite proficient at it, engaging in pleasantries and an engaging observation or two.

On this I’ve polled some women of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that intra-queue communication is confined to the odd exasperated look and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate mentioned it’s merely at the sinks 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 forced, time and again, to stand in a shared procession only for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the utter inequity of it. A useful metric for any civilised community would be balanced access in wee waiting times. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Comradely Chat in the Line

During my time in my wait, I tried to spark some friendly chat going about this novel situation of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something along the lines of: “Well, this is an unpleasant change, doesn’t it chaps?”

A fellow grinned, another appeared confused, a other man appeared embarrassed. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further manifestation of a failing society, political correctness etc. Aside from that, stillness reigned. An individual came out, adjusting his clothing. The line shuffled up a position. A couple more men entered the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Exchange

A woman glided out of the neighbouring toilet, all clean and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned bashfully at her, endeavouring to express recognition of this upside-down state of affairs. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you blighter. Return when you’ve done this on a regular basis and only then I might give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She uttered a word. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I truly wouldn’t censure her.