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Shortly before the festive season, I experienced an extraordinary episode. I feel it proved instructive. This took place at a gathering of some old friends, who are incidentally dentists, but it's not pertinent. The present party were solely men, which turns out to be significant.

A Strange Scenario

The location was a pub/restaurant enjoying a brisk business. A wasted session was had by all. Good cuisine, good libations and remarkably entertaining tales about teeth. Naturally, the time arrived for excursions to the gents. Those who departed, I half-noticed, looked to be absent a significant period. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it was my go, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line recognised.

A Sample of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect pity from any female reader here. I am acutely cognizant that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I observed women standing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

In addition to the annoyance of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about lingering there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was decidedly sobering to have a sample of it myself, seeing the opposite gender breeze through the portal while I was compelled to stand solemnly in line with my fellow fellas, angling away at whatever we had in our jackets and consulting our phones.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a whole form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant familiarity. Ladies, I surmise, have learned to be quite proficient at it, sharing polite remarks and an notable insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some female friends of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that intra-queue communication is confined to the occasional eye roll and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague informed me it’s only at the washbasins afterwards that discussion tends to start up.

Were I a woman, I’d waste no time on both small talk or reticence. If I was forced, over and over, to stand in a public line merely for the chance to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter injustice of it. A handy metric for any advanced society would be balanced access in wee waiting times. I’m researching studies on this.

Comradely Chat in the Procession

Returning to my wait, I tried to initiate some male camaraderie flowing about this new state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and said something to the effect of: “Ah, this represents an disagreeable difference, isn't it lads?”

A fellow grinned, another looked blank, a other man appeared embarrassed. Another shook his head as if this was one more symptom of modern woes, political correctness etc. Aside from that, stillness ensued. Someone exited, fastening his trousers. The group shuffled up a position. Another two men took a place at the end of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Exchange

A female wafted out of the neighbouring facility, all fragrant and at ease. It was just fine for some. I beamed apologetically at her, attempting to communicate recognition of this reversed situation. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you bastard. Come back when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and only then I might give you the time.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She didn’t say anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I really wouldn’t censure her.