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Just before the holidays, I encountered an unusual episode. I think it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dentists, but it's not pertinent. The attending crowd were solely men, which is key.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The location was a pub/restaurant doing a roaring trade. A lost daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Fine cuisine, nice beverages and remarkably amusing anecdotes about oral health. Inevitably, the time came for visits to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, appeared to be away a considerable while. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it was me next, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting 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 queue recognised.

A Taste of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect pity from any lady here. I am fully cognizant that, for women, having to queue to use a public toilet is the norm. On countless occasions have I witnessed women queuing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Beyond the annoyance of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of indignity about standing there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was decidedly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, observing the other sex breeze through the door while I was compelled to wait patiently with others with my mates, fiddling at something we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal familiarity. Females, I presume, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, sharing polite remarks and an engaging insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some women of my circle. The prevailing view is that queue-based dialogue is restricted to the odd eye roll and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate told me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations later that chat tends to begin.

Were I a woman, I’d waste no time on either pleasantries or silence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to wait in a public line only for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the sheer inequity of it. A handy benchmark for any modern culture would be equal waiting times in toilet queue durations. I’m looking for studies on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Procession

During my time in my wait, I tried to spark some brotherly banter going about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something like: “Ah, this makes an unpleasant change, isn't it lads?”

Someone chuckled, someone else looked blank, a third appeared embarrassed. A further person shook his head as if this was a further symptom of a failing society, political correctness etc. For the most part, quiet prevailed. Someone exited, fastening his trousers. The queue advanced a position. A couple more men took a place at the back of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Moment

A female wafted out of the next-door toilet, all clean and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I grinned apologetically at her, endeavouring to express recognition of this reversed state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and only then I could give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I honestly would not fault her.