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Just before Christmas, I had an extraordinary situation. I feel it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a meeting of some old friends, who are, as it happens dentists, but that’s not pertinent. The present party were exclusively male, which is relevant.

A Strange Predicament

The establishment was a bar and eatery enjoying a roaring trade. A forgotten session was enjoyed by everyone. Nice food, nice beverages and unexpectedly entertaining stories about oral health. Inevitably, the time arrived for trips to the gents. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, seemed to be absent a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this was, but when it came to me next, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line knew.

An Experience of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect empathy from any woman here. I am fully cognizant that, for ladies, having to queue to use a public toilet is the norm. Repeatedly have I witnessed women standing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of indignity about waiting there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was decidedly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, observing the other sex glide through the portal while I was obliged to stand solemnly in queue with my fellow fellas, fiddling at something we had in our jackets and checking our handsets.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a whole conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little familiarity. Ladies, I presume, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, sharing small talk and an interesting observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some female friends of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that within-the-line communication is limited to the odd eye roll and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate told me it’s merely at the sinks afterwards that conversation tends to begin.

If I was a woman, I’d refrain from on either pleasantries or quiet. If I was compelled, time and again, to stand in a common queue simply for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the utter unfairness of it. A handy benchmark for any civilised community would be equal waiting times in toilet lining-up periods. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Male Interaction in the Queue

During my time in my line, I endeavoured to spark some brotherly banter going about this unprecedented situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something along the lines of: “So, this is an unpleasant change, isn't it chaps?”

Someone smiled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a other man looked sheepish. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another manifestation of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, quiet prevailed. An individual came out, adjusting his clothing. The queue shuffled up a place. Another two men joined the back of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Interaction

A lady emerged out of the adjacent toilet, all fresh and at ease. It was just fine for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, attempting to convey an understanding of this topsy-turvy situation. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve done this another hundred times and only then I could give you the time.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She didn’t say anything. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly could not censure her.