Shortly before the holidays, I encountered an extraordinary episode. I feel it did me good. This occurred at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dental professionals, but that’s not pertinent. The present crowd were all blokes, which is significant.
A Novel Predicament
The venue was a pub/restaurant doing a excellent custom. A forgotten afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Good fare, fine drink and surprisingly amusing tales about teeth. Inevitably, the point came for visits to the gents. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, seemed to be absent a considerable while. I didn't ponder why this was, but when it became my go, everything was revealed.
Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line recognised.
A Sample of the Norm
To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect pity from any female reader here. I am fully aware that, for women, needing to line up to use a public toilet is standard practice. How many times have I observed women waiting in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?
Beyond the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a whiff of indignity about standing there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was profoundly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, seeing the women glide through the door while I was compelled to stand solemnly in queue with my fellow fellas, fiddling at anything we had in our jackets and checking our mobile devices.
The Art of Toilet Queue Banter
There’s a whole style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little experience. Females, I surmise, have developed skills to be rather good at it, sharing polite remarks and an notable observation or two.
About this topic I’ve polled some female friends of my knowledge. The consensus is that intra-queue communication is confined to the odd exasperated look and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague informed me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations later that discussion tends to begin.
Had I been a lady, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or quiet. If I was forced, time and again, to stand in a public line only for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the utter inequity of it. A useful measure for any advanced culture would be equal waiting times in toilet queue durations. I’m seeking out research on this.
Brotherly Banter in the Procession
Returning to my queue, I attempted to get some male camaraderie going about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something along the lines of: “Well, this makes an irksome difference, isn't it boys?”
One person smiled, someone else looked blank, a other man appeared embarrassed. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further symptom of broken Britain, woke madness etc. For the most part, stillness ensued. An individual exited, adjusting his clothing. The line moved forward a place. A couple more men took a place at the rear of it. I sighed.
A Silent Exchange
A woman glided out of the adjacent restroom, all fresh and at ease. It was all right for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, endeavouring to convey acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy scenario. She said: “Don't turn to me for support, you blighter. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and at that point I may give you the time of day.”
Actually, she never spoke that. She didn’t say anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I really would not fault her.
