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Shortly before Christmas, I had an unusual situation. I feel it proved instructive. This happened at a get-together of some old friends, who are incidentally dental professionals, but it's not important. The attending crowd were exclusively male, which is key.

A Novel Situation

The establishment was a bar and eatery enjoying a excellent custom. A wasted daytime was had by all. Fine food, nice beverages and surprisingly entertaining stories about oral health. Naturally, the time dawned for excursions to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, looked to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this was, but when it was my turn, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line recognised.

An Experience of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any female reader here. I am acutely cognizant that, for women, needing to line up to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I seen women waiting in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Apart from the annoyance of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a hint of indignity about lingering there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was decidedly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, watching the women breeze through the door while I was forced to stand solemnly with others with my companions, fiddling at something we had in our pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant familiarity. Ladies, I imagine, have learned to be quite proficient at it, exchanging polite remarks and an interesting observation or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some female friends of my circle. The consensus is that queue-based interaction is limited to the odd exasperated look and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague told me it’s exclusively at the washbasins subsequently that conversation tends to break out.

If I was a lady, I’d waste no time on both pleasantries or silence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to queue in a common queue only for the chance to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the sheer injustice of it. A handy measure for any advanced society would be gender parity in wee waiting times. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Male Banter in the Procession

During my time in my queue, I tried to initiate some brotherly banter flowing about this new circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something like: “Well, this is an unpleasant change, right chaps?”

A fellow smiled, someone else looked blank, a third appeared embarrassed. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further manifestation of a failing society, cultural decline etc. For the most part, quiet prevailed. Someone emerged, adjusting his clothing. The group advanced a spot. Another two men joined the back of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Interaction

A woman glided out of the next-door facility, all clean and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed apologetically at her, trying to communicate recognition of this upside-down situation. She said: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you blighter. Come back when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and then I might give you the time of day.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She uttered a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly could not censure her.