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In the run-up to Christmas, I had an extraordinary situation. I feel it was beneficial for me. This happened at a get-together of some old friends, who are incidentally dental professionals, but that’s not pertinent. The attending party were solely men, which proves to be significant.

A Novel Predicament

The location was a bar and eatery enjoying a roaring trade. A forgotten afternoon was had by all. Nice cuisine, nice libations and remarkably humorous anecdotes about oral health. Naturally, the moment dawned for trips to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, appeared to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it was my go, the mystery was solved.

I turned 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 considerable queue for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue knew.

A Taste of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect empathy from any lady here. I am obviously conscious that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a convenience is standard practice. Repeatedly have I seen women standing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the hassle of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of humiliation about waiting there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was profoundly bracing to get a taste of it myself, seeing the women walk straight through the door while I was compelled to wait patiently with others with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at something we had in our pockets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Art of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little experience. Women, I presume, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, sharing pleasantries and an engaging insight or two.

On this I’ve consulted some women of my knowledge. The consensus is that within-the-line communication is restricted to the rare exasperated look and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate mentioned it’s exclusively at the washbasins subsequently that chat tends to start up.

Had I been a female, I’d refrain from on both pleasantries or quiet. If I was forced, time and again, to stand in a common queue only for the chance to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the pure injustice of it. A useful benchmark for any advanced society would be gender parity in wee queue durations. I’m looking for research on this.

Male Banter in the Procession

Back in my wait, I tried to initiate some brotherly banter going about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something like: “Well, this makes an unpleasant difference, right lads?”

A fellow smiled, someone else looked blank, a third appeared embarrassed. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was a further manifestation of a failing society, political correctness etc. Otherwise, silence prevailed. Someone came out, zipping up. The line moved forward a position. Another two men joined the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Moment

A lady glided out of the adjacent facility, all clean and relaxed. It was all right for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, attempting to convey acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy situation. She said: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and at that point I may give you the time.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I truly could not fault her.