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Just before the holidays, I encountered an extraordinary episode. I feel it did me good. This happened at a gathering of some old friends, who are, as it happens dentists, but this isn't relevant. The assembled group were all blokes, which is relevant.

A Strange Scenario

The establishment was a pub/restaurant doing a brisk business. A forgotten afternoon was had by all. Nice cuisine, fine drink and surprisingly amusing tales about teeth. Inevitably, the point dawned for visits to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, looked to be absent a significant period. I didn't ponder why this was, but when it became my turn, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line knew.

An Experience of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for sympathy from any woman here. I am obviously cognizant that, for women, being forced to wait to use a restroom is the norm. How many times have I witnessed women waiting in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Apart from the hassle of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of indignity about lingering there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly sobering to have a sample of it myself, seeing the other sex walk straight through the portal while I was forced to wait patiently in line with my fellow fellas, angling away at something we had in our pockets and checking our handsets.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a whole form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal experience. Women, I presume, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in small talk and an interesting observation or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some female friends of my circle. The consensus is that queue-based communication is confined to the odd weary glance and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague mentioned it’s merely at the washbasins afterwards that conversation tends to break out.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both niceties or silence. If I was obliged, time and again, to stand in a public line simply for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like crazy at the utter unfairness of it. A useful benchmark for any civilised culture would be equal waiting times in toilet queue durations. I’m researching studies on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Procession

During my time in my line, I endeavoured to get some friendly chat flowing about this novel situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and said something like: “Well, this makes an irksome change, doesn’t it boys?”

Someone chuckled, a second appeared confused, a third individual seemed awkward. Another shook his head as if this was one more symptom of modern woes, political correctness etc. Aside from that, quiet reigned. A man emerged, fastening his trousers. The line shuffled up a position. Two more men took a place at the rear of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Exchange

A female glided out of the adjacent facility, all clean and relaxed. It was all right for some. I smiled apologetically at her, trying to express acknowledgement of this reversed state of affairs. She said: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and then I could give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She didn’t say a word. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I really could not fault her.