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Just before the holidays, I had an remarkable incident. I think it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a gathering of several mates, who happen to be dentists, but this isn't important. The assembled crowd were solely men, which proves to be relevant.

A Strange Scenario

The location was a bar and eatery doing a excellent custom. A lost session was enjoyed by everyone. Fine food, nice libations and surprisingly amusing tales about dentistry. Inevitably, the moment dawned for visits to the male facilities. Those who went, I half-noticed, looked to be gone a considerable while. I didn't contemplate why this could be, but when it came to my turn, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Taste of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any female reader here. I am fully cognizant that, for women, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I witnessed women standing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

In addition to the hassle of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a tinge of indignity about lingering there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was decidedly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, observing the women walk straight through the door while I was compelled to stand solemnly with others with my fellow fellas, angling away at whatever we had in our pockets and checking our phones.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little experience. Females, I presume, have become adept to be rather good at it, exchanging polite remarks and an notable comment or two.

On this I’ve consulted some female friends of my knowledge. The general agreement is that queue-based interaction is confined to the occasional eye roll and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate informed me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations subsequently that discussion tends to start up.

Had I been a woman, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or silence. If I was compelled, time and again, to queue in a shared procession only for the chance to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the sheer inequity of it. A valuable measure for any civilised culture would be gender parity in toilet queue durations. I’m researching research on this.

Comradely Banter in the Queue

Returning to my line, I tried to spark some brotherly banter started about this novel state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and said something along the lines of: “So, this represents an unpleasant change, isn't it boys?”

Someone chuckled, a second looked blank, a third individual seemed awkward. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was a further example of modern woes, political correctness etc. For the most part, stillness prevailed. An individual emerged, adjusting his clothing. The line shuffled up a place. A couple more men joined the back of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Exchange

A female wafted out of the neighbouring restroom, all fragrant and at ease. It was just fine for some. I beamed apologetically at her, attempting to communicate acknowledgement of this reversed state of affairs. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you jerk. Return when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and at that point I might give you the time.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I truly could not blame her.