Shortly before the festive season, I experienced an extraordinary incident. I believe it did me good. This occurred at a gathering of some old friends, who are, as it happens dentists, but this isn't relevant. The assembled crowd were all blokes, which proves to be relevant.
A Strange Scenario
The establishment was a pub/restaurant enjoying a brisk business. A lost afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Nice food, fine beverages and surprisingly amusing anecdotes about teeth. Inevitably, the time came for visits to the men's room. Those who departed, I half-noticed, looked to be absent a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this was, but when it was my turn, everything was revealed.
I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue were accustomed to.
A Sample of the Norm
For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect empathy from any lady here. I am acutely aware that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a restroom is the norm. On countless occasions have I witnessed women queuing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?
In addition to the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a hint of embarrassment about lingering there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the opposite gender breeze through the door while I was obliged to line up dutifully in line with my companions, looking distractedly at something we had in our jackets and consulting our phones.
The Art of Toilet Queue Chitchat
There’s a whole form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little experience. Ladies, I imagine, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, sharing pleasantries and an notable observation or two.
On this I’ve polled some women of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that queue-based interaction is limited to the occasional exasperated look and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate told me it’s only at the sinks subsequently that chat tends to start up.
If I was a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both pleasantries or reticence. If I was obliged, time and again, to wait in a common queue merely for the chance to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter inequity of it. A valuable benchmark for any advanced society would be gender parity in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for studies on this.
Comradely Chat in the Queue
Back in my queue, I tried to get some male camaraderie flowing about this novel state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something along the lines of: “So, this represents an irksome change, right boys?”
Someone smiled, someone else looked blank, a other man looked sheepish. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more manifestation of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Otherwise, quiet ensued. An individual came out, fastening his trousers. The line shuffled up a place. Another two men took a place at the rear of it. I let out a breath.
A Knowing Interaction
A female emerged out of the neighbouring facility, all clean and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed apologetically at her, endeavouring to communicate recognition of this reversed scenario. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve done this another hundred times and only then I may give you the courtesy.”
In reality, she didn’t say that. She uttered nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I truly could not censure her.
