An Illuminating Experience in the Pub Lavatory Procession

Shortly before the festive season, I had an remarkable episode. I feel it did me good. This took place at a get-together of several mates, who happen to be dental professionals, but that’s not pertinent. The assembled party were exclusively male, which proves to be relevant.

A Novel Situation

The location was a tavern experiencing a roaring trade. A wasted session was had by all. Fine fare, good drink and unexpectedly amusing tales about teeth. Naturally, the moment arrived for excursions to the men's room. Those who departed, I partially registered, looked to be absent a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it became my go, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the female facilities, but a considerable queue 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 Taste of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any female reader here. I am obviously cognizant that, for females, being forced to wait to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I seen women standing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

In addition to the annoyance of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of humiliation about lingering there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was truly bracing to get a taste of it myself, watching the women glide through the portal while I was compelled to wait patiently with others with my companions, looking distractedly at anything we had in our pockets and checking our handsets.

The Practice of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a entire form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little familiarity. Ladies, I imagine, have learned to be quite proficient at it, sharing small talk and an engaging insight or two.

On this I’ve polled some women of my knowledge. The consensus is that within-the-line interaction is limited to the rare weary glance and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate informed me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations later that conversation tends to break out.

If I was a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both pleasantries or reticence. If I was compelled, over and over, to stand in a public line merely for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the sheer inequity of it. A useful measure for any civilised society would be balanced access in urination lining-up periods. I’m seeking out research on this.

Male Chat in the Line

During my time in my wait, I endeavoured to spark some male camaraderie going about this unprecedented situation of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something along the lines of: “So, this represents an disagreeable difference, doesn’t it lads?”

One person grinned, another appeared confused, a third looked sheepish. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another example of modern woes, cultural decline etc. For the most part, quiet reigned. A man came out, zipping up. The line moved forward a position. A couple more men entered the end of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Moment

A lady wafted out of the adjacent toilet, all clean and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I grinned bashfully at her, trying to convey an understanding of this topsy-turvy scenario. She said: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you blighter. Return when you’ve endured this another hundred times and only then I could give you the time.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She said a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I really could not blame her.