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Shortly before the holidays, I experienced an remarkable situation. I believe it did me good. This took place at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but it's not relevant. The attending crowd were all blokes, which is relevant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The venue was a tavern doing a roaring trade. A wasted afternoon was shared by the group. Nice cuisine, nice libations and unexpectedly amusing tales about dentistry. Naturally, the point arrived for trips to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, seemed to be gone a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this was, but when it came to my turn, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Sample of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any woman here. I am fully conscious that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is the norm. How many times have I witnessed women queuing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Apart from the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of indignity about lingering there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly bracing to have a sample of it myself, watching the other sex glide through the portal while I was compelled to stand solemnly with others with my fellow fellas, angling away at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our phones.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a whole conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little experience. Women, I presume, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in small talk and an notable observation or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some women of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is limited to the odd exasperated look and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate informed me it’s only at the washbasins afterwards that discussion tends to start up.

If I was a female, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or silence. If I was compelled, over and over, to queue in a common queue only for the chance to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the utter unfairness of it. A useful metric for any modern culture would be balanced access in toilet queue durations. I’m looking for data on this.

Comradely Chat in the Procession

During my time in my line, I tried to spark some brotherly banter going about this new state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and said something to the effect of: “Well, this represents an unpleasant difference, doesn’t it chaps?”

One person smiled, another appeared confused, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another example of a failing society, cultural decline etc. For the most part, silence reigned. A man came out, fastening his trousers. The queue moved forward a spot. Two more men joined the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Moment

A lady wafted out of the neighbouring facility, all fresh and unhurried. It was all right for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, endeavouring to convey an understanding of this topsy-turvy situation. Her response was: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you bastard. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and only then I could give you the time.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She said anything. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I honestly could not censure her.