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Just before the festive season, I encountered an unusual episode. I feel it was beneficial for me. This took place at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dental professionals, but it's not relevant. The attending party were exclusively male, which is key.

A Strange Predicament

The location was a tavern enjoying a brisk business. A lost session was enjoyed by everyone. Fine food, nice drink and surprisingly humorous anecdotes about dentistry. Naturally, the moment dawned for visits to the gents. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, seemed to be gone a considerable while. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it was my go, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue knew.

An Experience of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect empathy from any lady here. I am acutely aware that, for women, having to queue to use a convenience is standard practice. Repeatedly have I witnessed women standing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

In addition to the hassle of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a hint of humiliation about waiting there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was profoundly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, observing the women breeze through the door while I was obliged to line up dutifully in queue with my fellow fellas, angling away at something we had in our jackets and checking our mobile devices.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal familiarity. Women, I imagine, have learned to be quite proficient at it, sharing small talk and an interesting comment or two.

On this I’ve polled some female friends of my circle. The consensus is that within-the-line communication is confined to the rare eye roll and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague informed me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations afterwards that conversation tends to start up.

If I was a woman, I’d refrain from on either niceties or quiet. If I was forced, time and again, to wait in a public line only for the chance to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the sheer injustice of it. A handy metric for any modern community would be equal waiting times in wee waiting times. I’m researching research on this.

Male Interaction in the Queue

During my time in my line, I endeavoured to initiate some friendly chat going about this new circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something like: “So, this represents an unpleasant variation, doesn’t it chaps?”

Someone smiled, another seemed nonplussed, a third looked sheepish. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more symptom of a failing society, political correctness etc. For the most part, quiet ensued. Someone exited, fastening his trousers. The line shuffled up a position. Another two men joined the back of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Exchange

A lady wafted out of the neighbouring restroom, all fresh and at ease. It was all right for some. I grinned apologetically at her, attempting to express recognition of this upside-down state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you bastard. Come back when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and only then I could give you the time.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She uttered a word. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I truly would not fault her.