An Revelatory Incident in the Pub Restroom Queue

Just before the holidays, I had an extraordinary situation. I think it proved instructive. This took place at a get-together of several mates, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but it's not relevant. The attending party were exclusively male, which proves to be significant.

A Novel Scenario

The location was a bar and eatery experiencing a brisk business. A lost daytime was shared by the group. Fine cuisine, nice drink and surprisingly amusing stories about dentistry. As expected, the moment arrived for visits to the men's room. Those who went, I partially registered, appeared to be gone a long time. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it came to my go, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering knew.

A Taste of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for pity from any woman here. I am acutely cognizant that, for women, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I observed women standing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the hassle of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of humiliation about lingering there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was decidedly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, observing the opposite gender walk straight through the portal while I was obliged to stand solemnly in queue with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at something we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Art of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a entire form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal experience. Females, I imagine, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, engaging in small talk and an interesting comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that within-the-line interaction is limited to the occasional eye roll and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate mentioned it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations later that conversation tends to break out.

If I was a lady, I’d refrain from on either small talk or reticence. If I was compelled, time and again, to queue in a public line merely for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the sheer unfairness of it. A handy metric for any modern culture would be balanced access in toilet lining-up periods. I’m looking for studies on this.

Comradely Banter in the Line

Returning to my queue, I endeavoured to get some male camaraderie going about this novel state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and said something along the lines of: “Ah, this represents an irksome difference, doesn’t it chaps?”

One person smiled, a second appeared confused, a other man appeared embarrassed. Another shook his head as if this was a further example of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. For the most part, stillness prevailed. A man came out, adjusting his clothing. The queue moved forward a spot. Another two men entered the end of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Exchange

A lady glided out of the next-door restroom, all fresh and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, endeavouring to convey an understanding of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She remarked: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you bastard. Come back when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and at that point I might give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She said nothing. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly would not fault her.