Just before Christmas, I encountered an extraordinary situation. I think it proved instructive. This happened at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dental professionals, but that’s not pertinent. The present crowd were all blokes, which is significant.
The location was a pub/restaurant enjoying a roaring trade. A forgotten daytime was had by all. Good fare, good libations and remarkably amusing stories about dentistry. Naturally, the time dawned for excursions to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, looked to be away a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on why this might have been, but when it was me next, all became clear.
I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line 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 queue knew.
To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any lady here. I am fully cognizant that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is the norm. Repeatedly have I observed women queuing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?
Apart from the annoyance of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a tinge of indignity about waiting there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was truly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, observing the women breeze through the door while I was obliged to stand solemnly with others with my fellow fellas, fiddling at anything we had in our pockets and checking our mobile devices.
There’s a whole form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal knowledge. Ladies, I imagine, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in polite remarks and an notable insight or two.
Regarding this I’ve polled some women of my circle. The consensus is that intra-queue communication is limited to the odd exasperated look and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague informed me it’s only at the hand-washing stations subsequently that chat tends to break out.
Had I been a female, I’d not spend a moment on either pleasantries or quiet. If I was forced, repeatedly, to stand in a common queue simply for the chance to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the pure unfairness of it. A valuable benchmark for any civilised community would be equal waiting times in toilet waiting times. I’m researching data on this.
Back in my wait, I attempted to get some friendly chat flowing about this new state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something along the lines of: “Well, this represents an disagreeable change, doesn’t it lads?”
One person grinned, a second appeared confused, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more manifestation of modern woes, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, quiet prevailed. A man emerged, fastening his trousers. The line advanced a position. Two more men took a place at the end of it. I let out a breath.
A lady wafted out of the next-door toilet, all clean and at ease. It was just fine for some. I smiled apologetically at her, endeavouring to express recognition of this reversed situation. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for support, you bastard. Return when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and then I may give you the time of day.”
Actually, she did not utter that. She uttered anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I truly would not blame her.
