🔗 Share this article

Just before the holidays, I had an remarkable situation. I think it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dental professionals, but it's not important. The attending crowd were all blokes, which turns out to be key.

A Novel Situation

The establishment was a tavern enjoying a brisk business. A wasted afternoon was shared by the group. Fine fare, fine beverages and surprisingly humorous tales about dentistry. Naturally, the time arrived for trips to the male facilities. Those who departed, I half-noticed, appeared to be away a considerable while. I didn't contemplate why this could be, but when it became my turn, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Taste of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect pity from any lady here. I am obviously conscious that, for women, having to queue to use a public toilet is standard practice. How many times have I witnessed women waiting in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

In addition to the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a hint of embarrassment about lingering there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly bracing to have a sample of it myself, watching the other sex walk straight through the entrance while I was obliged to wait patiently in line with my companions, looking distractedly at something we had in our jackets and checking our mobile devices.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a whole form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little familiarity. Females, I surmise, have learned to be quite proficient at it, engaging in pleasantries and an notable observation or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some women of my knowledge. The general agreement is that queue-based communication is restricted to the odd weary glance and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate mentioned it’s exclusively at the sinks afterwards that discussion tends to begin.

If I was a lady, I’d refrain from on both pleasantries or quiet. If I was obliged, over and over, to stand in a public line simply for the chance to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the pure injustice of it. A handy benchmark for any modern society would be gender parity in toilet queue durations. I’m researching research on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Line

Returning to my queue, I tried to get some male camaraderie flowing about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something like: “Ah, this is an disagreeable variation, doesn’t it chaps?”

A fellow smiled, someone else looked blank, a other man looked sheepish. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was one more symptom of a failing society, woke madness etc. Otherwise, stillness ensued. A man exited, zipping up. The group moved forward a place. A couple more men joined the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Interaction

A woman wafted out of the neighbouring restroom, all fragrant and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, attempting to communicate recognition of this topsy-turvy scenario. Her response was: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you bastard. Come back when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and only then I might give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She didn’t say nothing. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I truly would not censure her.