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Shortly before Christmas, I encountered an unusual episode. I believe it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dentists, but that’s not pertinent. The assembled crowd were solely men, which is key.

A Strange Predicament

The location was a bar and eatery enjoying a roaring trade. A lost session was shared by the group. Fine food, nice drink and remarkably humorous anecdotes about teeth. As expected, the point arrived for visits to the men's room. Those who went, I vaguely observed, seemed to be absent a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on why this might have been, but when it became me next, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering knew.

An Experience of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any woman here. I am obviously conscious that, for females, being forced to wait to use a restroom is the norm. Repeatedly have I witnessed women waiting in a row while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

In addition to the annoyance of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about lingering there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was profoundly bracing to have a sample of it myself, observing the other sex breeze through the portal while I was forced to stand solemnly in line with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at something we had in our jackets and scrolling through our phones.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant familiarity. Females, I presume, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, exchanging polite remarks and an interesting comment or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that within-the-line dialogue is restricted to the odd eye roll and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague mentioned it’s merely at the hand-washing stations later that discussion tends to start up.

If I was a lady, I’d refrain from on both niceties or reticence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to queue in a public line only for the chance to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the pure unfairness of it. A valuable metric for any civilised society would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for research on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Line

Returning to my queue, I attempted to get some male camaraderie started about this novel situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something along the lines of: “Ah, this is an unpleasant variation, isn't it lads?”

A fellow grinned, a second looked blank, a other man appeared embarrassed. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was one more symptom of a failing society, woke madness etc. Aside from that, stillness reigned. Someone emerged, zipping up. The group advanced a place. A couple more men joined the back of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Exchange

A female emerged out of the adjacent toilet, all fresh and unhurried. It was all right for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, attempting to express an understanding of this upside-down state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you bastard. Return when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and then I may give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She uttered anything. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I truly would not blame her.