🔗 Share this article

In the run-up to the holidays, I encountered an extraordinary incident. I feel it proved instructive. This occurred at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dental professionals, but that’s not important. The assembled party were exclusively male, which is key.

A Strange Predicament

The establishment was a tavern experiencing a excellent custom. A lost daytime was had by all. Fine cuisine, fine libations and remarkably amusing anecdotes about dentistry. Naturally, the time dawned for visits to the gents. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, seemed to be absent a considerable while. I didn't ponder the reason this was, but when it was me next, everything was revealed.

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

A Sample of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for sympathy from any lady here. I am obviously cognizant that, for women, needing to line up to use a convenience is standard practice. How many times have I seen women waiting in a row while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Apart from the annoyance of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of humiliation about standing there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was decidedly bracing to get a taste of it myself, watching the women glide through the portal while I was forced to line up dutifully with others with my mates, fiddling at anything we had in our trouser pockets and checking our phones.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a whole conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little familiarity. Women, I imagine, have learned to be rather good at it, exchanging polite remarks and an notable comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some female friends of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that within-the-line communication is limited to the occasional exasperated look and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate mentioned it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations subsequently that chat tends to break out.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both niceties or quiet. If I was obliged, time and again, to wait in a shared procession simply for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the sheer inequity of it. A useful measure for any civilised community would be gender parity in urination lining-up periods. I’m researching research on this.

Male Interaction in the Line

Back in my wait, I endeavoured to get some male camaraderie going about this new circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and said something along the lines of: “Ah, this represents an irksome variation, doesn’t it chaps?”

A fellow smiled, someone else appeared confused, a third seemed awkward. A further person shook his head as if this was a further example of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Aside from that, stillness prevailed. Someone came out, zipping up. The line moved forward a position. Two more men joined the rear of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Moment

A female glided out of the neighbouring restroom, all fresh and relaxed. It was all right for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, trying to express acknowledgement of this upside-down scenario. She said: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you blighter. Return when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and then I could give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She said anything. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly would not fault her.