🔗 Share this article

Shortly before the festive season, I experienced an remarkable episode. I feel it proved instructive. This happened at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but this isn't pertinent. The attending group were solely men, which is relevant.

A Strange Predicament

The venue was a bar and eatery doing a brisk business. A forgotten daytime was had by all. Nice cuisine, nice drink and remarkably entertaining tales about teeth. Inevitably, the point arrived for visits to the gents. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, seemed to be gone a long time. I didn't ponder why this was, but when it was me next, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the female facilities, but a great long one for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Sample of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any female reader here. I am acutely conscious that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I observed women waiting in a row while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the hassle of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of indignity about standing there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was decidedly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, watching the other sex glide through the portal while I was obliged to stand solemnly in line with my companions, angling away at something we had in our jackets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Practice of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a entire conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal knowledge. Women, I surmise, have developed skills to be rather good at it, engaging in pleasantries and an notable comment or two.

On this I’ve polled some women of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that queue-based communication is restricted to the odd weary glance and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate mentioned it’s merely at the washbasins subsequently that discussion tends to begin.

If I was a female, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or silence. If I was compelled, time and again, to stand in a public line simply for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the sheer injustice of it. A handy measure for any advanced culture would be gender parity in urination lining-up periods. I’m researching research on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Procession

During my time in my line, I tried to initiate some friendly chat flowing about this novel situation of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something along the lines of: “Ah, this represents an unpleasant change, right lads?”

A fellow grinned, a second appeared confused, a third individual looked sheepish. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was yet another example of a failing society, woke madness etc. Aside from that, silence prevailed. An individual emerged, adjusting his clothing. The queue shuffled up a place. A couple more men took a place at the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Exchange

A woman wafted out of the adjacent restroom, all fresh and unhurried. It was all right for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, endeavouring to express an understanding of this topsy-turvy situation. She said: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you bastard. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and at that point I may give you the time of day.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She uttered a word. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I really would not blame her.