A Truly Illuminating Incident in the Public House Lavatory Procession

Just before Christmas, I had an extraordinary episode. I think it was beneficial for me. This took place at a gathering of some old friends, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but this isn't relevant. The assembled group were all blokes, which proves to be significant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The establishment was a pub/restaurant experiencing a excellent custom. A forgotten afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Good food, nice drink and surprisingly humorous anecdotes about dentistry. Naturally, the point dawned for trips to the gents. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, appeared to be absent a long time. I didn't ponder why this was, but when it was my go, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line knew.

An Experience of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any lady here. I am acutely aware that, for females, having to queue to use a restroom is the norm. On countless occasions have I seen women standing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Beyond the inconvenience of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about lingering there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was truly sobering to have a sample of it myself, observing the women walk straight through the door while I was obliged to wait patiently with others with my companions, fiddling at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our phones.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a whole form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little experience. Women, I imagine, have developed skills to be rather good at it, sharing pleasantries and an interesting insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that queue-based dialogue is confined to the rare exasperated look and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate mentioned it’s only at the hand-washing stations subsequently that discussion tends to start up.

Were I a lady, I’d refrain from on either niceties or reticence. If I was obliged, over and over, to stand in a shared procession merely for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the sheer injustice of it. A valuable metric for any civilised society would be equal waiting times in wee queue durations. I’m looking for studies on this.

Male Chat in the Line

Back in my queue, I attempted to initiate some male camaraderie going about this unprecedented situation of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something along the lines of: “So, this represents an irksome difference, doesn’t it lads?”

Someone smiled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third individual looked sheepish. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was yet another symptom of broken Britain, woke madness etc. For the most part, stillness ensued. A man came out, fastening his trousers. The group shuffled up a place. Another two men took a place at the rear of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Moment

A lady wafted out of the next-door toilet, all fresh and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed apologetically at her, attempting to convey acknowledgement of this reversed state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you jerk. Come back when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and at that point I might give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She uttered anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I really would not censure her.