🔗 Share this article

Shortly before the holidays, I experienced an remarkable incident. I think it did me good. This took place at a meeting of several mates, who are incidentally dental professionals, but that’s not relevant. The assembled crowd were exclusively male, which proves to be key.

A Strange Situation

The establishment was a bar and eatery experiencing a roaring trade. A forgotten afternoon was had by all. Nice food, nice libations and remarkably humorous stories about oral health. As expected, the point came for trips to the gents. Those who departed, I half-noticed, appeared to be gone a significant period. I didn't ponder why this was, but when it came to my go, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering knew.

A Sample of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect empathy from any lady here. I am acutely aware that, for ladies, having to queue to use a public toilet is standard practice. On countless occasions have I seen women standing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

In addition to the hassle of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about standing there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was decidedly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, watching the other sex breeze through the entrance while I was obliged to line up dutifully with others with my companions, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal knowledge. Women, I presume, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, sharing pleasantries and an engaging insight or two.

On this I’ve consulted some women of my circle. The prevailing view is that within-the-line communication is confined to the rare exasperated look and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate told me it’s exclusively at the washbasins later that conversation tends to begin.

Had I been a female, I’d waste no time on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was obliged, time and again, to stand in a common queue merely for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the sheer unfairness of it. A valuable benchmark for any advanced culture would be equal waiting times in wee queue durations. I’m researching studies on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Line

Back in my line, I attempted to initiate some friendly chat flowing about this novel circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and said something to the effect of: “Ah, this makes an disagreeable change, doesn’t it boys?”

Someone smiled, another seemed nonplussed, a other man looked sheepish. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further manifestation of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Aside from that, silence prevailed. A man came out, fastening his trousers. The group advanced a place. Another two men joined the end of it. I sighed.

A Silent Exchange

A female wafted out of the neighbouring facility, all fragrant and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, endeavouring to convey an understanding of this topsy-turvy situation. She said: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you bastard. Return when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and at that point I might give you the time of day.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She said a word. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly wouldn’t censure her.