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Just before the festive season, I had an unusual incident. I feel it did me good. This happened at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dental professionals, but that’s not relevant. The present party were solely men, which proves to be significant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The location was a tavern experiencing a roaring trade. A forgotten afternoon was shared by the group. Good cuisine, good drink and remarkably entertaining anecdotes about dentistry. As expected, the moment dawned for visits to the male facilities. 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 came to my turn, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a great long one 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 do not seek or anticipate pity from any woman here. I am obviously cognizant that, for women, having to queue to use a convenience is the norm. Repeatedly have I observed women standing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Apart from the hassle of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a hint of indignity about waiting there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was decidedly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, watching the other sex breeze through the door while I was compelled to stand solemnly in queue with my mates, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Art of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a whole form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant familiarity. Ladies, I surmise, have developed skills to be rather good at it, engaging in pleasantries and an interesting insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some female friends of my knowledge. The general agreement is that queue-based dialogue is confined to the odd weary glance and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate told me it’s only at the washbasins later that conversation tends to start up.

Had I been a lady, I’d refrain from on both pleasantries or quiet. If I was forced, over and over, to stand in a public line only for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the sheer injustice of it. A valuable measure for any advanced culture would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for research on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Queue

Back in my wait, I attempted to initiate some male camaraderie flowing about this novel state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something like: “So, this makes an unpleasant variation, right lads?”

A fellow smiled, a second looked blank, a third individual seemed awkward. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further manifestation of modern woes, political correctness etc. For the most part, stillness prevailed. A man exited, zipping up. The line advanced a position. Another two men joined the end of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Exchange

A female wafted out of the next-door toilet, all fresh and relaxed. It was all right for some. I grinned bashfully at her, trying to communicate an understanding of this reversed scenario. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for support, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve done this another hundred times and at that point I may give you the time of day.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She uttered nothing. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I truly wouldn’t blame her.