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Shortly before the festive season, I encountered an remarkable incident. I think it did me good. This took place at a gathering of several mates, who happen to be dentists, but this isn't pertinent. The present group were all blokes, which turns out to be key.

A Strange Predicament

The venue was a bar and eatery experiencing a roaring trade. A wasted afternoon was shared by the group. Good food, fine libations and surprisingly entertaining tales about teeth. As expected, the moment came for trips to the gents. Those who departed, I partially registered, appeared to be away a considerable while. I didn't ponder why this could be, but when it came to my go, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue recognised.

A Taste of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely conscious that, for females, needing to line up to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I seen women queuing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the annoyance of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a hint of embarrassment about lingering there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was decidedly sobering to have a sample of it myself, watching the opposite gender walk straight through the door while I was forced to wait patiently with others with my mates, fiddling at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Art of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a whole conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal experience. Ladies, I imagine, have learned to be rather good at it, sharing polite remarks and an engaging comment or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is restricted to the occasional exasperated look and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague told me it’s only at the washbasins later that discussion tends to break out.

If I was a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both pleasantries or silence. If I was compelled, time and again, to queue in a public line only for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the sheer unfairness of it. A useful metric for any civilised culture would be equal waiting times in urination waiting times. I’m researching data on this.

Male Banter in the Line

During my time in my line, I tried to get some brotherly banter flowing about this novel circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and said something to the effect of: “Ah, this represents an unpleasant change, right lads?”

One person grinned, someone else appeared confused, a third looked sheepish. Another rolled his eyes as if this was a further example of a failing society, political correctness etc. Aside from that, quiet prevailed. A man came out, zipping up. The queue advanced a place. Two more men joined the rear of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Moment

A lady emerged out of the next-door toilet, all fragrant and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I grinned apologetically at her, endeavouring to express recognition of this upside-down situation. She said: “Don’t look to me for support, you blighter. Return when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and then I might give you the time.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She uttered anything. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I really wouldn’t blame her.