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Just before the festive season, I encountered an remarkable situation. I believe it did me good. This took place at a gathering of some old friends, who happen to be dentists, but it's not important. The attending group were all blokes, which is significant.

A Novel Predicament

The location was a pub/restaurant doing a brisk business. A lost daytime was shared by the group. Good fare, good libations and remarkably amusing stories about oral health. As expected, the point came for excursions to the male facilities. Those who went, I partially registered, seemed to be away a long time. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it was me next, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a great long one for the men's. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line knew.

A Taste of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for sympathy from any lady here. I am acutely conscious that, for females, needing to line up to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I observed women queuing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the annoyance of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a hint of embarrassment about standing there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was truly sobering to get a taste of it myself, seeing the opposite gender glide through the door while I was forced to wait patiently in queue with my companions, angling away at something we had in our pockets and consulting our phones.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a whole form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal familiarity. Women, I surmise, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in small talk and an interesting insight or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some female friends of my knowledge. The consensus is that within-the-line dialogue is limited to the odd weary glance and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate mentioned it’s merely at the washbasins later that conversation tends to begin.

Had I been a woman, I’d waste no time on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was compelled, time and again, to stand in a common queue simply for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the sheer inequity of it. A valuable measure for any civilised community would be balanced access in wee queue durations. I’m seeking out data on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Line

Back in my queue, I endeavoured to get some friendly chat flowing about this new situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something along the lines of: “Well, this represents an disagreeable variation, isn't it lads?”

One person smiled, a second seemed nonplussed, a other man appeared embarrassed. Another rolled his eyes as if this was one more example of a failing society, political correctness etc. Otherwise, stillness reigned. An individual emerged, zipping up. The queue advanced a position. Another two men entered the end of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Exchange

A lady wafted out of the next-door facility, all clean and at ease. It was all right for some. I grinned bashfully at her, attempting to communicate acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and then I could give you the time.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She uttered anything. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I honestly would not fault her.