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In the run-up to the holidays, I had an unusual situation. I feel it did me good. This took place at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The assembled group were exclusively male, which is relevant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The establishment was a pub/restaurant doing a brisk business. A lost daytime was had by all. Fine fare, fine libations and surprisingly entertaining stories about teeth. Inevitably, the point dawned for trips to the men's room. Those who departed, I half-noticed, looked to be away a considerable while. I didn't ponder why this might have been, but when it came to my go, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue knew.

A Sample of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any female reader here. I am fully cognizant that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I witnessed women standing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Beyond the annoyance of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a hint of humiliation about standing there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was truly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the women glide through the door while I was forced to line up dutifully in queue with my companions, angling away at anything we had in our jackets and checking our mobile devices.

The Art of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a entire form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little familiarity. Ladies, I presume, have learned to be rather good at it, engaging in polite remarks and an engaging insight or two.

On this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The consensus is that queue-based dialogue is confined to the occasional eye roll and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague told me it’s only at the sinks afterwards that chat tends to begin.

Were I a woman, I’d waste no time on either niceties or silence. If I was forced, over and over, to wait in a common queue simply for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the pure inequity of it. A valuable metric for any advanced culture would be balanced access in urination queue durations. I’m looking for studies on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Line

During my time in my wait, I endeavoured to initiate some male camaraderie going about this novel state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and said something along the lines of: “So, this makes an irksome difference, right lads?”

One person smiled, another appeared confused, a other man looked sheepish. Yet another shook his head as if this was a further manifestation of modern woes, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, silence ensued. Someone emerged, zipping up. The queue advanced a position. Another two men entered the rear of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Interaction

A woman glided out of the neighbouring toilet, all fragrant and relaxed. It was all right for some. I grinned apologetically at her, attempting to communicate recognition of this reversed state of affairs. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for support, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve endured this another hundred times and only then I may give you the time.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She didn’t say a word. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly wouldn’t blame her.