🔗 Share this article

Just before the festive season, I encountered an extraordinary episode. I believe it did me good. This occurred at a meeting of several mates, who are incidentally dentists, but it's not pertinent. The attending crowd were all blokes, which proves to be key.

A Novel Scenario

The location was a pub/restaurant experiencing a brisk business. A forgotten afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Good cuisine, nice beverages and unexpectedly entertaining anecdotes about dentistry. Inevitably, the time dawned for visits to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, looked to be gone a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this was, but when it was me next, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering recognised.

An Experience of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any woman here. I am fully cognizant that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a restroom is standard practice. How many times have I witnessed women waiting in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Apart from the annoyance of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about waiting there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was decidedly sobering to get a taste of it myself, watching the women breeze through the entrance while I was obliged to stand solemnly with others with my mates, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a complete conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal experience. Ladies, I surmise, have developed skills to be rather good at it, engaging in polite remarks and an interesting comment or two.

On this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that intra-queue communication is restricted to the odd eye roll and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate mentioned it’s only at the washbasins later that conversation tends to begin.

Had I been a woman, I’d waste no time on either small talk or reticence. If I was obliged, time and again, to stand in a shared procession simply for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the utter injustice of it. A handy measure for any modern community would be gender parity in toilet waiting times. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Male Chat in the Queue

Returning to my queue, I attempted to initiate some brotherly banter started about this new state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something along the lines of: “Well, this represents an irksome change, doesn’t it lads?”

One person chuckled, another seemed nonplussed, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Yet another shook his head as if this was one more example of a failing society, political correctness etc. Otherwise, quiet reigned. Someone emerged, zipping up. The queue advanced a place. Two more men joined the back of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Exchange

A female wafted out of the neighbouring toilet, all fresh and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled bashfully at her, trying to express recognition of this reversed scenario. She said: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you blighter. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and at that point I might give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She uttered a word. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I really could not censure her.