🔗 Share this article

In the run-up to Christmas, I had an extraordinary situation. I feel it was beneficial for me. This happened at a get-together of several mates, who are incidentally dentists, but that’s not pertinent. The present crowd were exclusively male, which is key.

A Strange Situation

The venue was a pub/restaurant experiencing a brisk business. A forgotten daytime was shared by the group. Good cuisine, good libations and remarkably amusing tales about teeth. Inevitably, the time arrived for excursions to the men's room. Those who departed, I partially registered, seemed to be away a long time. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it became me next, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world 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 female reader here. I am acutely aware that, for females, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I seen women queuing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Apart from the inconvenience of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about standing there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was decidedly sobering to get a taste of it myself, observing the women glide through the entrance while I was forced to wait patiently with others with my mates, angling away at something we had in our jackets and consulting our handsets.

The Genre of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a whole form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal familiarity. Women, I imagine, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging small talk and an engaging comment or two.

On this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that within-the-line dialogue is limited to the odd weary glance and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate informed me it’s only at the washbasins later that chat tends to begin.

If I was a female, I’d waste no time on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to queue in a shared procession only for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the utter inequity of it. A handy measure for any civilised community would be gender parity in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for studies on this.

Male Banter in the Queue

Returning to my queue, I endeavoured to get some brotherly banter going about this unprecedented situation of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something like: “So, this is an unpleasant variation, doesn’t it chaps?”

A fellow grinned, another appeared confused, a third individual looked sheepish. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further manifestation of a failing society, political correctness etc. Otherwise, quiet reigned. Someone exited, fastening his trousers. The line shuffled up a place. Two more men entered the back of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Moment

A female emerged out of the neighbouring facility, all fragrant and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, attempting to convey recognition of this upside-down scenario. Her response was: “Don't come to me for support, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve done this another hundred times and at that point I may give you the time of day.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She uttered a word. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I truly could not fault her.