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In the run-up to the holidays, I encountered an remarkable incident. I think it did me good. This occurred at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be tooth doctors, but that’s not important. The assembled party were all blokes, which turns out to be significant.

A Novel Scenario

The location was a pub/restaurant doing a excellent custom. A lost afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Fine food, fine beverages and surprisingly amusing stories about dentistry. As expected, the point came for excursions to the men's room. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, seemed to be absent a long time. I didn't ponder why this could be, but when it became me next, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a great long one for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue recognised.

An Experience of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any female reader here. I am fully cognizant that, for females, having to queue to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

In addition to the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a hint of indignity about waiting there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the women glide through the entrance while I was obliged to wait patiently in line with my mates, looking distractedly at anything we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our phones.

The Art of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a complete conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal experience. Women, I presume, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging small talk and an interesting insight or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some women of my knowledge. The consensus is that within-the-line dialogue is confined to the odd exasperated look and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate informed me it’s exclusively at the washbasins later that discussion tends to begin.

Had I been a female, I’d refrain from on either pleasantries or silence. If I was forced, time and again, to queue in a common queue merely for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the pure unfairness of it. A handy metric for any advanced community would be gender parity in wee lining-up periods. I’m seeking out research on this.

Comradely Chat in the Queue

Back in my line, I attempted to initiate some male camaraderie flowing about this new state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and said something along the lines of: “Well, this is an unpleasant change, right chaps?”

One person chuckled, a second appeared confused, a third appeared embarrassed. Another shook his head as if this was yet another symptom of a failing society, political correctness etc. For the most part, silence ensued. Someone came out, adjusting his clothing. The group shuffled up a position. Another two men took a place at the back of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Exchange

A lady wafted out of the next-door facility, all clean and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled apologetically at her, attempting to convey an understanding of this topsy-turvy scenario. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you blighter. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and then I may give you the courtesy.”

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