🔗 Share this article

In the run-up to Christmas, I had an extraordinary episode. I think it proved instructive. This happened at a get-together of several mates, who happen to be dental professionals, but it's not important. The attending group were exclusively male, which proves to be relevant.

A Strange Predicament

The establishment was a bar and eatery enjoying a excellent custom. A wasted session was shared by the group. Nice fare, nice beverages and unexpectedly entertaining stories about oral health. Inevitably, the moment arrived for trips to the gents. Those who went, I vaguely observed, looked to be gone a significant period. I didn't ponder why this could be, but when it came to my go, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men's. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue recognised.

A Sample of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any woman here. I am obviously cognizant that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I observed women waiting 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 toilet, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about waiting there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was truly sobering to get a taste of it myself, watching the other sex walk straight through the door while I was compelled to wait patiently in queue with my mates, angling away at whatever we had in our pockets and checking our handsets.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a whole form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal familiarity. Women, I surmise, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, sharing pleasantries and an notable observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some women of my circle. The consensus is that within-the-line communication is restricted to the odd weary glance and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague informed me it’s only at the hand-washing stations subsequently that chat tends to start up.

If I was a female, I’d waste no time on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was compelled, time and again, to stand in a common queue merely for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the utter unfairness of it. A useful metric for any civilised society would be gender parity in toilet lining-up periods. I’m seeking out research on this.

Comradely Banter in the Queue

During my time in my wait, I tried to get some male camaraderie going about this novel circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and said something to the effect of: “Ah, this makes an disagreeable variation, doesn’t it lads?”

Someone grinned, a second looked blank, a third individual looked sheepish. Yet another shook his head as if this was yet another manifestation of modern woes, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, silence reigned. Someone came out, adjusting his clothing. The queue advanced a spot. A couple more men joined the end of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Exchange

A woman wafted out of the neighbouring toilet, all fragrant and unhurried. It was all right for some. I beamed bashfully at her, endeavouring to communicate acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy situation. She said: “Don't come to me for support, you jerk. Return when you’ve done this on a regular basis and only then I might give you the time.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She said a word. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I really wouldn’t blame her.