A Genuinely Eye-Opening Experience in the Bar Toilet Procession

Just before Christmas, I had an remarkable incident. I think it was beneficial for me. This happened at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but it's not relevant. The present crowd were all blokes, which turns out to be key.

A Novel Scenario

The location was a bar and eatery experiencing a brisk business. A wasted daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Fine fare, nice beverages and remarkably amusing tales about dentistry. Inevitably, the point dawned for trips to the gents. Those who went, I half-noticed, looked to be gone a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this was, but when it came to my turn, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

An Experience of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for sympathy from any female reader here. I am fully aware that, for women, being forced to wait to use a restroom is standard practice. On countless occasions have I observed women standing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the hassle of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of humiliation about lingering there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was truly bracing to get a taste of it myself, watching the other sex breeze through the portal while I was obliged to wait patiently with others with my companions, angling away at anything we had in our jackets and scrolling through our phones.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little knowledge. Females, I imagine, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in polite remarks and an notable observation or two.

On this I’ve consulted some female friends of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is restricted to the occasional exasperated look and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague mentioned it’s only at the hand-washing stations later that conversation tends to start up.

Had I been a lady, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or silence. If I was compelled, over and over, to queue in a shared procession simply for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter injustice of it. A useful metric for any civilised society would be equal waiting times in wee queue durations. I’m looking for research on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Queue

During my time in my queue, I tried to initiate some friendly chat going about this new circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and said something along the lines of: “Ah, this makes an disagreeable variation, isn't it boys?”

One person grinned, someone else looked blank, a third individual seemed awkward. Another rolled his eyes as if this was a further symptom of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, stillness prevailed. A man came out, adjusting his clothing. The group advanced a position. Another two men entered the end of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Exchange

A woman emerged out of the neighbouring restroom, all clean and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I beamed apologetically at her, endeavouring to convey acknowledgement of this upside-down state of affairs. She said: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you blighter. Come back when you’ve done this another hundred times and only then I might give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She uttered anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I really wouldn’t blame her.