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Shortly before the holidays, I encountered an remarkable situation. I believe it did me good. This happened at a gathering of several mates, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but it's not important. The present group were exclusively male, which turns out to be significant.

A Strange Predicament

The venue was a tavern doing a excellent custom. A lost daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Good food, nice libations and unexpectedly humorous stories about teeth. Naturally, the point came for excursions to the gents. Those who departed, I partially registered, appeared to be away a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this might have been, but when it was my turn, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line knew.

A Sample of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for sympathy from any female reader here. I am fully cognizant that, for females, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is the norm. Repeatedly have I seen women standing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Beyond the annoyance of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a hint of humiliation about standing there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was decidedly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, observing the women glide through the portal while I was forced to stand solemnly with others with my companions, fiddling at something we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant experience. Women, I imagine, have learned to be quite proficient at it, engaging in small talk and an interesting insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that queue-based interaction is confined to the occasional eye roll and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate mentioned it’s exclusively at the sinks subsequently that conversation tends to break out.

If I was a woman, I’d waste no time on both small talk or reticence. If I was compelled, time and again, to stand in a common queue merely for the chance to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the pure unfairness of it. A valuable metric for any modern culture would be gender parity in urination lining-up periods. I’m looking for data on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Queue

Back in my line, I endeavoured to initiate some male camaraderie flowing about this novel circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something to the effect of: “So, this makes an irksome change, doesn’t it boys?”

One person grinned, another seemed nonplussed, a third individual looked sheepish. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another symptom of modern woes, political correctness etc. Otherwise, silence reigned. Someone came out, zipping up. The line shuffled up a place. Two more men entered the rear of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Interaction

A female glided out of the next-door restroom, all clean and unhurried. It was all right for some. I beamed apologetically at her, trying to convey acknowledgement of this reversed situation. She said: “Don’t look to me for support, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve done this a hundred more times and at that point I might give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She said anything. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I truly would not blame her.