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Just before the holidays, I experienced an unusual situation. I think it proved instructive. This occurred at a gathering of some old friends, who happen to be dentists, but it's not important. The assembled crowd were exclusively male, which turns out to be significant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The establishment was a tavern experiencing a roaring trade. A wasted daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Nice fare, fine beverages and surprisingly amusing stories about oral health. Naturally, the point dawned for excursions to the male facilities. Those who went, I partially registered, seemed to be away a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this might have been, but when it came to my go, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a great long one for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue recognised.

An Experience of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any woman here. I am acutely conscious that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a public toilet is the norm. How many times have I seen women waiting in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Apart from the hassle of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about standing there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly bracing to have a sample of it myself, observing the women breeze through the door while I was obliged to line up dutifully in queue with my mates, fiddling at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and checking our phones.

The Genre of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant experience. Ladies, I imagine, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging small talk and an notable observation or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some female friends of my circle. The general agreement is that queue-based dialogue is restricted to the odd weary glance and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague told me it’s exclusively at the washbasins afterwards that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a woman, I’d refrain from on either niceties or reticence. If I was forced, over and over, to wait in a shared procession only for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the utter injustice of it. A valuable measure for any civilised society would be equal waiting times in toilet queue durations. I’m researching data on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Queue

During my time in my queue, I endeavoured to initiate some brotherly banter flowing about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and said something along the lines of: “Well, this represents an disagreeable difference, doesn’t it lads?”

One person smiled, another appeared confused, a other man appeared embarrassed. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was one more example of a failing society, political correctness etc. Otherwise, stillness ensued. An individual exited, fastening his trousers. The queue shuffled up a place. Two more men entered the back of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Exchange

A woman wafted out of the neighbouring toilet, all clean and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, trying to express an understanding of this topsy-turvy scenario. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for support, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve done this a hundred more times and only then I might give you the time.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She uttered a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I really could not fault her.