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Shortly before the holidays, I had an extraordinary episode. I feel it was beneficial for me. This took place at a gathering of several mates, who happen to be dentists, but that’s not important. The assembled party were solely men, which proves to be significant.

A Strange Situation

The establishment was a tavern enjoying a roaring trade. A lost afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Fine fare, fine beverages and remarkably entertaining tales about teeth. Inevitably, the point arrived for excursions to the men's room. Those who departed, I half-noticed, seemed to be gone a long time. I didn't ponder why this could be, but when it became me next, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. An empty space for the female facilities, but a great long one for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line were accustomed to.

A Sample of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any female reader here. I am obviously aware that, for women, needing to line up to use a public toilet is standard practice. On countless occasions have I observed women waiting in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Beyond the inconvenience of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a tinge of indignity about lingering there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was truly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, observing the women walk straight through the entrance while I was forced to stand solemnly in line with my companions, looking distractedly at something we had in our jackets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant experience. Ladies, I presume, have learned to be quite proficient at it, sharing pleasantries and an notable comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some women of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is limited to the rare eye roll and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate informed me it’s only at the hand-washing stations subsequently that chat tends to start up.

Were I a lady, I’d refrain from on either small talk or silence. If I was compelled, time and again, to wait in a common queue simply for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter injustice of it. A handy benchmark for any modern community would be gender parity in wee waiting times. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Procession

During my time in my wait, I tried to get some brotherly banter flowing about this novel situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and said something along the lines of: “Well, this represents an disagreeable variation, isn't it boys?”

Someone grinned, a second appeared confused, a third looked sheepish. A further person shook his head as if this was a further symptom of modern woes, cultural decline etc. For the most part, stillness prevailed. A man exited, fastening his trousers. The queue shuffled up a place. Another two men took a place at the back of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Interaction

A woman glided out of the adjacent toilet, all fragrant and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned apologetically at her, endeavouring to communicate recognition of this reversed state of affairs. She said: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you blighter. Return when you’ve done this another hundred times and at that point I might give you the time of day.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She said anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I truly would not fault her.