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Just before the festive season, I experienced an unusual situation. I believe it proved instructive. This occurred at a meeting of several mates, who are incidentally dentists, but this isn't pertinent. The present group were exclusively male, which is significant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The establishment was a pub/restaurant enjoying a brisk business. A wasted session was had by all. Nice cuisine, nice beverages and surprisingly humorous stories about oral health. Inevitably, the moment came for trips to the gents. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, appeared to be gone a considerable while. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it was me next, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line knew.

A Sample of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely conscious that, for females, having to queue to use a public toilet is standard practice. How many times have I seen women standing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Beyond the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about lingering there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was decidedly sobering to have a sample of it myself, watching the opposite gender glide through the portal while I was obliged to wait patiently in queue with my fellow fellas, angling away at something we had in our jackets and checking our phones.

The Genre of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal experience. Women, I imagine, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, engaging in pleasantries and an interesting insight or two.

On this I’ve asked some female friends of my acquaintance. The consensus is that intra-queue dialogue is limited to the rare weary glance and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate told me it’s only at the sinks afterwards that chat tends to start up.

Were I a lady, I’d refrain from on both pleasantries or silence. If I was forced, over and over, to stand in a common queue merely for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the sheer inequity of it. A handy benchmark for any advanced culture would be equal waiting times in wee waiting times. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Procession

Returning to my queue, I endeavoured to get some male camaraderie going about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something along the lines of: “Ah, this makes an irksome variation, isn't it boys?”

Someone smiled, someone else looked blank, a third individual appeared embarrassed. A further person shook his head as if this was a further manifestation of modern woes, political correctness etc. For the most part, quiet ensued. Someone came out, zipping up. The queue moved forward a position. Two more men entered the rear of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Interaction

A woman emerged out of the neighbouring facility, all clean and relaxed. It was all right for some. I beamed bashfully at her, attempting to express acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy situation. She said: “Don't come to me for support, you jerk. Come back when you’ve done this another hundred times and only then I might give you the time.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say nothing. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I really wouldn’t blame her.