🔗 Share this article

Shortly before the festive season, I experienced an remarkable episode. I feel it did me good. This occurred at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but that’s not pertinent. The attending group were all blokes, which proves to be relevant.

A Novel Predicament

The establishment was a bar and eatery doing a brisk business. A lost session was had by all. Nice cuisine, fine beverages and surprisingly humorous anecdotes about teeth. As expected, the moment came for trips to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, appeared to be gone a long time. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it became me next, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering knew.

A Sample of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any lady here. I am fully aware that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a public toilet is standard practice. Repeatedly have I witnessed women waiting in a line while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the hassle of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a hint of indignity about lingering there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was truly bracing to get a taste of it myself, seeing the women glide through the portal while I was obliged to wait patiently with others with my companions, fiddling at something we had in our pockets and checking our phones.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a complete conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal experience. Ladies, I presume, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging small talk and an interesting comment or two.

On this I’ve asked some female friends of my knowledge. The general agreement is that within-the-line dialogue is confined to the odd eye roll and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate informed me it’s exclusively at the sinks subsequently that discussion tends to start up.

Had I been a female, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or reticence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to queue in a common queue merely for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the sheer injustice of it. A useful benchmark for any modern culture would be equal waiting times in wee queue durations. I’m looking for studies on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Line

During my time in my wait, I attempted to initiate some male camaraderie going about this novel state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something like: “So, this represents an disagreeable change, doesn’t it boys?”

Someone chuckled, another seemed nonplussed, a third seemed awkward. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another manifestation of a failing society, woke madness etc. For the most part, stillness prevailed. Someone emerged, zipping up. The group shuffled up a spot. Another two men entered the back of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Exchange

A woman glided out of the neighbouring toilet, all fragrant and relaxed. It was all right for some. I smiled apologetically at her, endeavouring to convey recognition of this upside-down situation. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve done this a hundred more times and only then I could give you the courtesy.”

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