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Shortly before Christmas, I experienced an remarkable situation. I think it did me good. This happened at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dental professionals, but this isn't pertinent. The assembled crowd were exclusively male, which proves to be relevant.

A Novel Scenario

The venue was a bar and eatery doing a roaring trade. A forgotten daytime was had by all. Nice cuisine, nice beverages and surprisingly amusing anecdotes about teeth. Naturally, the point arrived for excursions to the gents. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, seemed to be gone a significant period. I didn't contemplate the reason this might have been, but when it was my turn, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line recognised.

An Experience of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect empathy from any woman here. I am acutely conscious that, for females, needing to line up to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Apart from the hassle of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a hint of indignity about waiting there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was profoundly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the other sex glide through the entrance while I was compelled to wait patiently with others with my fellow fellas, angling away at whatever we had in our jackets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Art of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant familiarity. Ladies, I surmise, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in pleasantries and an interesting insight or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The consensus is that queue-based dialogue is confined to the odd exasperated look and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague informed me it’s exclusively at the sinks later that discussion tends to break out.

Had I been a woman, I’d waste no time on both niceties or quiet. If I was forced, over and over, to wait in a shared procession merely for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the sheer inequity of it. A useful metric for any modern community would be gender parity in wee waiting times. I’m looking for data on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Queue

Returning to my line, I endeavoured to initiate some brotherly banter going about this new circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and said something along the lines of: “So, this makes an disagreeable variation, right boys?”

One person grinned, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third seemed awkward. A further person shook his head as if this was one more manifestation of a failing society, woke madness etc. Aside from that, quiet reigned. Someone emerged, fastening his trousers. The line moved forward a place. Two more men joined the back of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Interaction

A woman wafted out of the neighbouring facility, all fragrant and at ease. It was just fine for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, endeavouring to express recognition of this reversed scenario. She said: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you blighter. Return when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and at that point I may give you the time.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She uttered anything. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I truly would not censure her.