A Genuinely Revelatory Experience in the Public House Lavatory Line

In the run-up to the holidays, I had an extraordinary episode. I think it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The attending group were all blokes, which is relevant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The location was a bar and eatery experiencing a brisk business. A lost afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Good food, fine drink and remarkably entertaining anecdotes about teeth. As expected, the moment dawned for trips to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, looked to be gone a long time. I didn’t dwell on the reason this might have been, but when it became my go, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line knew.

A Sample of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for pity from any female reader here. I am fully conscious that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a public toilet is the norm. On countless occasions have I observed women standing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Apart from the inconvenience of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about lingering there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was profoundly sobering to get a taste of it myself, seeing the opposite gender breeze through the entrance while I was obliged to line up dutifully in line with my mates, fiddling at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a entire conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal experience. Ladies, I surmise, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, exchanging polite remarks and an interesting insight or two.

On this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my circle. The general agreement is that intra-queue communication is restricted to the rare weary glance and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague mentioned it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations subsequently that chat tends to break out.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on either niceties or reticence. If I was forced, time and again, to queue in a common queue only for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the utter inequity of it. A valuable measure for any civilised society would be gender parity in toilet queue durations. I’m seeking out data on this.

Male Chat in the Line

Returning to my wait, I attempted to spark some friendly chat flowing about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something along the lines of: “Well, this makes an disagreeable difference, right chaps?”

Someone smiled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third seemed awkward. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another example of modern woes, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, quiet reigned. An individual emerged, fastening his trousers. The group shuffled up a place. Another two men took a place at the end of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Moment

A female wafted out of the next-door restroom, all fresh and unhurried. It was all right for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, endeavouring to communicate an understanding of this upside-down situation. She said: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you blighter. Come back when you’ve done this a hundred more times and then I could give you the time.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She uttered anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I truly would not fault her.