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Shortly before the holidays, I had an extraordinary episode. I feel it proved instructive. This happened at a get-together of some old friends, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but this isn't relevant. The attending party were exclusively male, which turns out to be key.

A Novel Scenario

The location was a pub/restaurant experiencing a roaring trade. A forgotten session was shared by the group. Nice food, good drink and remarkably amusing anecdotes about oral health. Naturally, the moment arrived for trips to the men's room. Those who departed, I partially registered, seemed to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this might have been, but when it came to me next, all became clear.

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

A Sample of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any female reader here. I am fully conscious that, for women, needing to line up to use a restroom is the norm. How many times have I observed women waiting in a row while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the annoyance of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of humiliation about waiting there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was profoundly bracing to get a taste of it myself, observing the other sex walk straight through the portal while I was obliged to stand solemnly in queue with my mates, angling away at whatever we had in our pockets and consulting our phones.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a entire form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant experience. Ladies, I presume, have become adept to be rather good at it, engaging in pleasantries and an engaging observation or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some female friends of my knowledge. The general agreement is that intra-queue dialogue is limited to the odd weary glance and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague informed me it’s only at the sinks subsequently that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a female, I’d refrain from on both pleasantries or quiet. If I was forced, time and again, to wait in a public line simply for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the utter inequity of it. A valuable metric for any modern community would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Male Banter in the Procession

During my time in my queue, I endeavoured to get some male camaraderie started about this new state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something to the effect of: “Ah, this represents an irksome difference, isn't it lads?”

Someone chuckled, another seemed nonplussed, a third individual looked sheepish. Yet another shook his head as if this was one more example of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, stillness prevailed. Someone exited, zipping up. The line shuffled up a spot. A couple more men took a place at the rear of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Exchange

A woman wafted out of the adjacent toilet, all fresh and at ease. It was just fine for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, trying to convey recognition of this topsy-turvy situation. Her response was: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you blighter. Return when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and only then I could give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She didn’t say anything. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I really would not censure her.