🔗 Share this article A Genuinely Revelatory Experience in the Pub Lavatory Line In the run-up to the holidays, I encountered an extraordinary episode. I feel it did me good. This occurred at a meeting of some old friends, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but it's not relevant. The assembled party were all blokes, which proves to be key. A Strange Predicament The establishment was a pub/restaurant doing a excellent custom. A forgotten afternoon was shared by the group. Nice food, fine libations and unexpectedly humorous anecdotes about oral health. Naturally, the point came for excursions to the male facilities. Those who went, I partially registered, seemed to be gone a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on why this might have been, but when it came to my go, all became clear. Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue were accustomed to. A Sample of Everyday Life Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely aware that, for women, being forced to wait to use a convenience is standard practice. How many times have I seen women queuing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite? Beyond the annoyance of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a hint of humiliation about waiting there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was profoundly sobering to have a sample of it myself, seeing the other sex glide through the door while I was obliged to stand solemnly in line with my companions, angling away at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our handsets. The Art of Toilet Queue Chitchat There’s a complete style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant experience. Women, I surmise, have learned to be rather good at it, sharing polite remarks and an notable observation or two. On this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my circle. The general agreement is that intra-queue dialogue is limited to the occasional eye roll and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague informed me it’s exclusively at the sinks afterwards that conversation tends to break out. Had I been a lady, I’d refrain from on both small talk or quiet. If I was obliged, time and again, to stand in a public line merely for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the sheer inequity of it. A handy benchmark for any advanced society would be balanced access in toilet queue durations. I’m looking for research on this. Comradely Interaction in the Queue During my time in my queue, I endeavoured to get some male camaraderie started about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something along the lines of: “Ah, this is an irksome change, right lads?” A fellow grinned, someone else appeared confused, a third individual looked sheepish. Yet another shook his head as if this was one more manifestation of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, silence prevailed. A man exited, adjusting his clothing. The line advanced a spot. Two more men entered the back of it. I sighed. A Knowing Exchange A lady emerged out of the next-door toilet, all clean and unhurried. It was all right for some. I grinned apologetically at her, trying to communicate acknowledgement of this reversed scenario. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you jerk. Return when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and at that point I might give you the time of day.” In reality, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly would not fault her.