A Genuinely Illuminating Experience in the Pub Lavatory Line

Just before Christmas, I had an unusual incident. I feel it proved instructive. This took place at a get-together of several mates, who are incidentally dental professionals, but this isn't important. The present group were exclusively male, which turns out to be relevant.

A Novel Scenario

The venue was a bar and eatery experiencing a brisk business. A wasted daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Fine cuisine, fine beverages and unexpectedly amusing stories about oral health. As expected, the point arrived for visits to the gents. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, seemed to be absent a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it became me next, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line knew.

A Sample of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any lady here. I am obviously aware that, for females, having to queue to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I witnessed women waiting in a row while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of indignity about standing there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was truly sobering to have a sample of it myself, watching the opposite gender breeze through the door while I was obliged to stand solemnly in line with my mates, angling away at something we had in our jackets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Art of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal familiarity. Women, I presume, have developed skills to be rather good at it, sharing polite remarks and an engaging observation or two.

On this I’ve polled some female friends of my knowledge. The general agreement is that queue-based interaction is confined to the rare eye roll and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate informed me it’s only at the sinks later that discussion tends to start up.

If I was a lady, I’d refrain from on either niceties or quiet. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to queue in a shared procession merely for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the utter inequity of it. A handy benchmark for any advanced culture would be balanced access in wee queue durations. I’m seeking out research on this.

Comradely Banter in the Procession

During my time in my queue, I tried to initiate some male camaraderie flowing about this new state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something like: “Well, this makes an disagreeable change, right boys?”

Someone smiled, another appeared confused, a other man looked sheepish. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another manifestation of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Aside from that, quiet ensued. An individual exited, adjusting his clothing. The queue moved forward a place. A couple more men entered the rear of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Exchange

A woman emerged out of the next-door facility, all fresh and relaxed. It was all right for some. I beamed bashfully at her, attempting to communicate acknowledgement of this upside-down situation. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you blighter. Return when you’ve done this another hundred times and only then I may give you the time.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She uttered anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I really could not fault her.