An Illuminating Encounter in the Pub Lavatory Procession

Just before the holidays, I encountered an remarkable situation. I think it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a meeting of several mates, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but this isn't important. The assembled crowd were solely men, which proves to be significant.

A Novel Situation

The venue was a tavern doing a excellent custom. A forgotten session was enjoyed by everyone. Good food, fine drink and unexpectedly humorous anecdotes about dentistry. Inevitably, the time arrived for excursions to the men's room. Those who departed, I half-noticed, appeared to be away a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it was my go, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line recognised.

A Taste of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any lady here. I am obviously conscious that, for women, needing to line up to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I witnessed women queuing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Beyond the hassle of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of indignity about standing there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was profoundly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, seeing the women breeze through the door while I was forced to line up dutifully with others with my mates, fiddling at something we had in our pockets and consulting our phones.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a entire conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal experience. Women, I presume, have developed skills to be rather good at it, exchanging polite remarks and an engaging comment or two.

On this I’ve consulted some female friends of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that queue-based dialogue is confined to the odd weary glance and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague mentioned it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations afterwards that chat tends to break out.

If I was a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either pleasantries or quiet. If I was forced, over and over, to wait in a common queue merely for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the pure unfairness of it. A handy metric for any advanced society would be gender parity in wee waiting times. I’m researching research on this.

Comradely Banter in the Procession

Back in my wait, I attempted to get some friendly chat going about this novel situation of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and said something along the lines of: “Well, this represents an disagreeable change, isn't it chaps?”

Someone grinned, a second looked blank, a third seemed awkward. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more example of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, quiet reigned. An individual exited, adjusting his clothing. The group shuffled up a place. A couple more men joined the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Moment

A female emerged out of the adjacent restroom, all clean and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, trying to express acknowledgement of this reversed scenario. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for support, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve done this a hundred more times and only then I could give you the time of day.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say nothing. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I really wouldn’t censure her.