🔗 Share this article

In the run-up to Christmas, I encountered an remarkable situation. I think it did me good. This occurred at a gathering of some old friends, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but it's not pertinent. The attending crowd were solely men, which proves to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The location was a tavern doing a excellent custom. A wasted daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Fine fare, fine libations and unexpectedly entertaining stories about oral health. Inevitably, the point came for excursions to the male facilities. Those who went, I half-noticed, seemed to be absent a significant period. I didn't ponder the reason this might have been, but when it was my go, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering knew.

A Taste of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect empathy from any female reader here. I am acutely aware that, for women, being forced to wait to use a restroom is the norm. Repeatedly have I witnessed women waiting in a line while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Apart from the annoyance of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about waiting there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, observing the women glide through the door while I was compelled to stand solemnly in line with my fellow fellas, angling away at whatever we had in our jackets and checking our handsets.

The Genre of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little experience. Women, I imagine, have learned to be rather good at it, exchanging small talk and an interesting comment or two.

On this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is restricted to the occasional eye roll and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague mentioned it’s exclusively at the sinks later that conversation tends to break out.

If I was a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or quiet. If I was compelled, over and over, to wait in a public line merely for the chance to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the sheer inequity of it. A useful benchmark for any civilised culture would be gender parity in wee queue durations. I’m seeking out data on this.

Male Chat in the Queue

Returning to my line, I tried to get some friendly chat going about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something like: “Ah, this represents an irksome difference, right boys?”

A fellow smiled, someone else looked blank, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Yet another shook his head as if this was one more example of modern woes, woke madness etc. For the most part, stillness reigned. A man exited, adjusting his clothing. The line advanced a position. A couple more men took a place at the rear of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Moment

A female wafted out of the neighbouring facility, all fragrant and unhurried. It was all right for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, trying to communicate recognition of this reversed state of affairs. She remarked: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve endured this another hundred times and at that point I could give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say a word. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly wouldn’t censure her.