A Genuinely Eye-Opening Incident in the Bar Restroom Queue

In the run-up to the festive season, I had an unusual incident. I believe it proved instructive. This occurred at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dental professionals, but this isn't important. The attending group were solely men, which proves to be significant.

A Strange Situation

The venue was a pub/restaurant doing a excellent custom. A lost daytime was had by all. Fine food, nice drink and remarkably entertaining anecdotes about dentistry. As expected, the time dawned for visits to the gents. Those who departed, I partially registered, appeared to be absent a significant period. I didn't contemplate the reason this might have been, but when it became my turn, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue knew.

A Sample of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any lady here. I am acutely conscious that, for females, needing to line up to use a convenience is the norm. On countless occasions have I observed women queuing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Apart from the inconvenience of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about standing there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was profoundly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, observing the women glide through the entrance while I was forced to wait patiently with others with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and checking our phones.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a entire conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little familiarity. Women, I imagine, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging pleasantries and an notable observation or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that intra-queue interaction is limited to the rare exasperated look and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate mentioned it’s only at the sinks afterwards that conversation tends to begin.

Were I a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either pleasantries or silence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to queue in a shared procession merely for the chance to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter inequity of it. A valuable metric for any civilised society would be balanced access in urination queue durations. I’m seeking out data on this.

Male Banter in the Procession

Back in my wait, I endeavoured to get some male camaraderie started about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something like: “Well, this makes an unpleasant difference, right chaps?”

Someone chuckled, another seemed nonplussed, a other man seemed awkward. A further person shook his head as if this was a further example of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, silence ensued. Someone emerged, adjusting his clothing. The line moved forward a spot. A couple more men took a place at the end of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Exchange

A female wafted out of the neighbouring toilet, all fresh and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed apologetically at her, trying to convey an understanding of this reversed scenario. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for support, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve done this another hundred times and only then I might give you the time of day.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She uttered anything. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly would not censure her.