Shortly before the festive season, I had an extraordinary episode. I believe it was beneficial for me. This happened at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The present party were exclusively male, which turns out to be key.
A Novel Predicament
The establishment was a pub/restaurant enjoying a brisk business. A lost daytime was shared by the group. Good fare, fine beverages and remarkably humorous tales about teeth. Naturally, the point arrived for trips to the male facilities. Those who went, I partially registered, seemed to be away a significant period. I didn't contemplate the reason this might have been, but when it became my turn, everything was revealed.
Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line knew.
A Sample of Common Reality
To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect pity from any female reader here. I am obviously aware that, for females, having to queue to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I observed women waiting in a row while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?
In addition to the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a whiff of indignity about standing there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was profoundly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, seeing the women glide through the portal while I was obliged to line up dutifully in line with my mates, looking distractedly at something we had in our jackets and scrolling through our handsets.
The Practice of Toilet Queue Banter
There’s a whole style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little knowledge. Females, I imagine, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, sharing pleasantries and an engaging observation or two.
Regarding this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The consensus is that queue-based dialogue is limited to the odd eye roll and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate informed me it’s only at the washbasins subsequently that chat tends to break out.
Were I a female, I’d not spend a moment on either niceties or silence. If I was forced, over and over, to wait in a public line merely for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the utter injustice of it. A useful measure for any modern culture would be gender parity in urination queue durations. I’m seeking out research on this.
Brotherly Banter in the Line
Returning to my queue, I attempted to spark some friendly chat flowing about this novel state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something to the effect of: “Ah, this represents an unpleasant difference, doesn’t it boys?”
A fellow smiled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third individual seemed awkward. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was a further example of broken Britain, woke madness etc. For the most part, silence ensued. An individual exited, adjusting his clothing. The line shuffled up a spot. Two more men entered the rear of it. I sighed.
A Silent Interaction
A lady glided out of the adjacent facility, all clean and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, endeavouring to convey recognition of this reversed scenario. She said: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you jerk. Come back when you’ve done this a hundred more times and only then I could give you the time.”
Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly could not blame her.
