🔗 Share this article

Shortly before Christmas, I experienced an remarkable incident. I feel it was beneficial for me. This took place at a gathering of some old friends, who are, as it happens dentists, but this isn't relevant. The present group were exclusively male, which is key.

A Novel Situation

The venue was a tavern experiencing a excellent custom. A lost afternoon was shared by the group. Good food, fine beverages and remarkably amusing anecdotes about teeth. Naturally, the time arrived for excursions to the men's room. Those who went, I half-noticed, looked to be gone a significant period. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it became me next, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

An Experience of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for sympathy from any lady here. I am obviously cognizant that, for ladies, having to queue to use a convenience is standard practice. How many times have I seen women standing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

In addition to the annoyance of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a tinge of indignity about waiting there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was profoundly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the other sex walk straight through the entrance while I was obliged to stand solemnly in line with my mates, angling away at anything we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Practice of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a complete form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little knowledge. Ladies, I surmise, have learned to be quite proficient at it, sharing small talk and an notable observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some women of my circle. The prevailing view is that intra-queue dialogue is limited to the occasional weary glance and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate told me it’s merely at the sinks subsequently that chat tends to break out.

Had I been a female, I’d refrain from on both small talk or silence. If I was obliged, time and again, to stand in a common queue only for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the utter injustice of it. A handy benchmark for any modern culture would be balanced access in urination lining-up periods. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Male Chat in the Line

Back in my wait, I attempted to initiate some male camaraderie started about this novel state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and said something to the effect of: “So, this makes an irksome difference, right chaps?”

Someone chuckled, a second appeared confused, a third looked sheepish. Another shook his head as if this was a further example of a failing society, political correctness etc. For the most part, silence ensued. A man emerged, adjusting his clothing. The line shuffled up a place. Two more men joined the end of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Exchange

A lady emerged out of the neighbouring restroom, all fresh and relaxed. It was all right for some. I beamed bashfully at her, endeavouring to convey recognition of this reversed state of affairs. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you jerk. Come back when you’ve done this on a regular basis and at that point I may give you the time.”

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