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In the run-up to Christmas, I had an extraordinary episode. I think it did me good. This occurred at a meeting of several mates, who are incidentally dental professionals, but this isn't relevant. The attending crowd were solely men, which proves to be key.

A Novel Predicament

The venue was a bar and eatery experiencing a excellent custom. A wasted afternoon was had by all. Nice food, nice beverages and remarkably humorous stories about dentistry. Naturally, the moment arrived for excursions to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, appeared to be away a significant period. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it was me next, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line recognised.

A Taste of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for pity from any woman here. I am obviously cognizant that, for females, having to queue to use a convenience is standard practice. How many times have I observed women standing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the annoyance of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a tinge of humiliation about lingering there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was profoundly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, watching the opposite gender glide through the portal while I was compelled to wait patiently with others with my fellow fellas, angling away at whatever we had in our jackets and checking our phones.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a entire form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal knowledge. Females, I presume, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in polite remarks and an notable observation or two.

On this I’ve polled some women of my acquaintance. The consensus is that within-the-line communication is restricted to the occasional eye roll and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague mentioned it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations later that discussion tends to begin.

Had I been a lady, I’d not spend a moment on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was compelled, over and over, to wait in a common queue only for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the utter inequity of it. A handy measure for any advanced community would be equal waiting times in toilet waiting times. I’m looking for studies on this.

Comradely Banter in the Queue

During my time in my wait, I endeavoured to initiate some male camaraderie started about this novel circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something along the lines of: “Well, this is an disagreeable change, doesn’t it boys?”

A fellow chuckled, someone else appeared confused, a third appeared embarrassed. Another shook his head as if this was a further symptom of a failing society, political correctness etc. Otherwise, silence ensued. Someone exited, adjusting his clothing. The group shuffled up a position. A couple more men took a place at the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Moment

A woman emerged out of the adjacent restroom, all fresh and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned apologetically at her, endeavouring to convey an understanding of this topsy-turvy scenario. She said: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you bastard. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and only then I may give you the time of day.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She uttered nothing. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I truly would not censure her.