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Shortly before the holidays, I experienced an remarkable episode. I believe it proved instructive. This took place at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but this isn't pertinent. The attending group were solely men, which proves to be significant.

A Novel Scenario

The location was a bar and eatery enjoying a roaring trade. A wasted afternoon was shared by the group. Fine cuisine, fine beverages and surprisingly amusing anecdotes about dentistry. Inevitably, the moment came for visits to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, seemed to be gone a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it became my go, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

An Experience of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for empathy from any lady here. I am fully conscious that, for females, having to queue to use a public toilet is the norm. Repeatedly have I witnessed women standing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Apart from the inconvenience of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of humiliation about standing there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was decidedly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the other sex glide through the door while I was compelled to wait patiently in line with my companions, angling away at something we had in our trouser pockets and checking our mobile devices.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a entire form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little experience. Ladies, I surmise, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, exchanging pleasantries and an interesting insight or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some female friends of my knowledge. The general agreement is that intra-queue dialogue is confined to the rare eye roll and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate informed me it’s merely at the washbasins later that discussion tends to start up.

Were I a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either pleasantries or silence. If I was forced, over and over, to queue in a common queue only for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the pure inequity of it. A handy metric for any civilised culture would be gender parity in wee queue durations. I’m researching data on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Queue

Back in my line, I attempted to spark some male camaraderie going about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something like: “Ah, this is an irksome variation, right boys?”

One person grinned, a second seemed nonplussed, a third individual appeared embarrassed. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more symptom of a failing society, woke madness etc. Otherwise, silence ensued. Someone exited, adjusting his clothing. The line moved forward a place. Two more men took a place at the end of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Exchange

A lady glided out of the next-door restroom, all clean and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed apologetically at her, trying to communicate acknowledgement of this upside-down scenario. She said: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve done this a hundred more times and then I may give you the time.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say a word. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I really could not blame her.