🔗 Share this article

Just before the holidays, I encountered an remarkable incident. I think it did me good. This took place at a gathering of several mates, who happen to be tooth doctors, but that’s not important. The attending crowd were all blokes, which is relevant.

A Novel Predicament

The venue was a bar and eatery enjoying a roaring trade. A wasted session was shared by the group. Nice cuisine, nice drink and surprisingly amusing tales about oral health. As expected, the point came for trips to the male facilities. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, seemed to be gone a considerable while. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it came to me next, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the female facilities, but a great long one for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line knew.

A Sample of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any female reader here. I am obviously cognizant that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I witnessed women queuing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

In addition to the hassle of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about lingering there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, observing the opposite gender breeze through the door while I was forced to wait patiently in queue with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at something we had in our jackets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Practice of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a complete conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little knowledge. Women, I imagine, have learned to be quite proficient at it, exchanging polite remarks and an notable observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some women of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that intra-queue dialogue is confined to the rare weary glance and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate mentioned it’s only at the sinks later that conversation tends to start up.

Had I been a lady, I’d waste no time on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to stand in a common queue simply for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the sheer injustice of it. A useful measure for any civilised culture would be balanced access in toilet queue durations. I’m researching research on this.

Comradely Banter in the Queue

Back in my queue, I tried to spark some brotherly banter flowing about this new situation of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something along the lines of: “Ah, this represents an unpleasant variation, right chaps?”

Someone grinned, a second seemed nonplussed, a other man looked sheepish. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another manifestation of modern woes, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, quiet ensued. Someone emerged, adjusting his clothing. The queue moved forward a position. A couple more men took a place at the back of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Exchange

A woman emerged out of the next-door restroom, all fragrant and relaxed. It was all right for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, trying to express an understanding of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you blighter. Return when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and at that point I might give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She didn’t say a word. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I really wouldn’t censure her.