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Shortly before the festive season, I encountered an unusual situation. I believe it was beneficial for me. This happened at a gathering of some old friends, who happen to be dental professionals, but that’s not pertinent. The assembled party were all blokes, which proves to be significant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The establishment was a tavern doing a roaring trade. A wasted afternoon was shared by the group. Good food, nice libations and remarkably amusing stories about teeth. Inevitably, the point arrived for excursions to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, appeared to be gone a considerable while. I didn't contemplate the reason this might have been, but when it came to me next, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line knew.

A Taste of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for sympathy from any lady here. I am fully aware that, for ladies, having to queue to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I witnessed women waiting in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Beyond the annoyance of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of humiliation about waiting there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the women walk straight through the portal while I was obliged to stand solemnly in line with my fellow fellas, fiddling at something we had in our pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Genre of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a complete conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little experience. Women, I imagine, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, sharing polite remarks and an engaging observation or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my circle. The prevailing view is that intra-queue communication is limited to the rare eye roll and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate told me it’s exclusively at the washbasins subsequently that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a woman, I’d waste no time on both niceties or silence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to stand in a shared procession only for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the sheer unfairness of it. A valuable benchmark for any advanced society would be gender parity in toilet waiting times. I’m looking for research on this.

Male Chat in the Line

During my time in my wait, I attempted to initiate some male camaraderie going about this novel state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something like: “Well, this makes an irksome variation, doesn’t it lads?”

One person chuckled, another looked blank, a third individual seemed awkward. Another rolled his eyes as if this was one more symptom of a failing society, political correctness etc. For the most part, quiet prevailed. An individual exited, adjusting his clothing. The queue moved forward a spot. Another two men entered the rear of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Interaction

A female emerged out of the neighbouring toilet, all fresh and unhurried. It was all right for some. I grinned bashfully at her, trying to communicate acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy scenario. She remarked: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you jerk. Return when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and then I could give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She uttered a word. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I really could not fault her.