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In the run-up to the holidays, I had an extraordinary episode. I believe it proved instructive. This took place at a get-together of some old friends, who happen to be dental professionals, but it's not important. The assembled party were solely men, which is relevant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The location was a bar and eatery enjoying a brisk business. A lost afternoon was shared by the group. Nice food, fine drink and surprisingly humorous anecdotes about dentistry. Naturally, the moment came for visits to the male facilities. Those who departed, I partially registered, looked to be absent a long time. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it was my turn, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line knew.

A Taste of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any female reader here. I am fully conscious that, for females, needing to line up to use a public toilet is the norm. How many times have I seen women standing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the annoyance of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about lingering there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was profoundly bracing to get a taste of it myself, seeing the other sex glide through the door while I was compelled to line up dutifully in line with my companions, looking distractedly at something we had in our trouser pockets and checking our mobile devices.

The Genre of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a complete conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little familiarity. Women, I presume, have learned to be rather good at it, engaging in small talk and an interesting insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some female friends of my circle. The general agreement is that queue-based dialogue is limited to the occasional exasperated look and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate mentioned it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations subsequently that chat tends to break out.

Were I a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either pleasantries or silence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to wait in a public line simply for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the pure injustice of it. A useful metric for any civilised community would be gender parity in wee waiting times. I’m researching data on this.

Male Chat in the Queue

Back in my line, I attempted to initiate some brotherly banter going about this novel circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and said something to the effect of: “So, this is an disagreeable change, isn't it chaps?”

One person grinned, another seemed nonplussed, a other man seemed awkward. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was a further manifestation of a failing society, woke madness etc. Aside from that, stillness reigned. Someone emerged, fastening his trousers. The group shuffled up a position. Another two men entered the rear of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Interaction

A woman glided out of the next-door restroom, all fresh and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I grinned apologetically at her, attempting to communicate an understanding of this upside-down situation. She remarked: “Don't come to me for support, you blighter. Return when you’ve endured this another hundred times and then I could give you the time of day.”

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