🔗 Share this article

In the run-up to Christmas, I encountered an remarkable incident. I think it proved instructive. This took place at a meeting of some old friends, who happen to be dentists, but it's not important. The attending crowd were exclusively male, which turns out to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The location was a tavern experiencing a brisk business. A wasted session was shared by the group. Fine fare, nice libations and remarkably entertaining anecdotes about dentistry. Inevitably, the point came for excursions to the male facilities. Those who went, I partially registered, seemed to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it was my go, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line recognised.

A Taste of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any lady here. I am obviously cognizant that, for women, having to queue to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I witnessed women waiting in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Apart from the inconvenience of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a hint of indignity about waiting there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was profoundly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, watching the women glide through the door while I was obliged to line up dutifully in line with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at anything we had in our jackets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Art of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant knowledge. Females, I presume, have become adept to be rather good at it, sharing small talk and an notable observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some female friends of my knowledge. The general agreement is that within-the-line dialogue is restricted to the rare weary glance and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague informed me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations subsequently that discussion tends to start up.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both pleasantries or silence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to stand in a shared procession merely for the chance to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the utter unfairness of it. A useful metric for any civilised community would be gender parity in wee waiting times. I’m looking for data on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Procession

Returning to my queue, I tried to get some brotherly banter going about this new situation of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something like: “Well, this makes an disagreeable change, isn't it lads?”

A fellow chuckled, a second appeared confused, a other man appeared embarrassed. Another rolled his eyes as if this was a further manifestation of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, silence prevailed. An individual emerged, zipping up. The queue moved forward a position. Another two men joined the end of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Interaction

A lady emerged out of the adjacent facility, all clean and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I beamed apologetically at her, attempting to convey an understanding of this reversed state of affairs. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for support, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and then I may give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She said a word. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I really would not fault her.