Shortly before the holidays, I had an remarkable incident. I believe it proved instructive. This took place at a meeting of several mates, who are incidentally dentists, but that’s not important. The present party were all blokes, which is relevant.
A Strange Situation
The venue was a pub/restaurant experiencing a brisk business. A forgotten afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Good fare, nice drink and unexpectedly humorous tales about teeth. Naturally, the moment arrived for trips to the men's room. Those who went, I half-noticed, looked to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this might have been, but when it was my go, the mystery was solved.
I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering recognised.
A Taste of the Norm
Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect pity from any female reader here. I am acutely conscious that, for women, needing to line up to use a convenience is the norm. Repeatedly have I seen women standing in a row while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?
Beyond the hassle of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a hint of indignity about waiting there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was truly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the opposite gender glide through the entrance while I was compelled to wait patiently in line with my fellow fellas, fiddling at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our phones.
The Art of Restroom Line Banter
There’s a whole form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant familiarity. Ladies, I imagine, have developed skills to be rather good at it, exchanging pleasantries and an engaging observation or two.
About this topic I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The general agreement is that queue-based communication is limited to the odd eye roll and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate informed me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations subsequently that chat tends to start up.
Had I been a female, I’d waste no time on both small talk or silence. If I was forced, time and again, to stand in a public line merely for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the pure inequity of it. A valuable benchmark for any modern society would be gender parity in urination queue durations. I’m researching research on this.
Brotherly Chat in the Line
During my time in my line, I endeavoured to get some friendly chat flowing about this new situation of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something to the effect of: “So, this makes an irksome change, doesn’t it chaps?”
Someone chuckled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a other man appeared embarrassed. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was a further example of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, stillness ensued. Someone exited, fastening his trousers. The line advanced a position. Another two men entered the back of it. I exhaled.
An Unspoken Interaction
A lady glided out of the adjacent restroom, all clean and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, trying to express acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy scenario. She said: “Don't come to me for support, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and at that point I might give you the courtesy.”
Truthfully, she did not utter that. She didn’t say anything. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I really wouldn’t censure her.
