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Just before the festive season, I encountered an remarkable incident. I think it was beneficial for me. This happened at a gathering of several mates, who are incidentally dentists, but this isn't pertinent. The present crowd were all blokes, which proves to be significant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The location was a pub/restaurant enjoying a brisk business. A forgotten afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Good cuisine, fine drink and surprisingly amusing stories about dentistry. Inevitably, the time arrived for excursions to the male facilities. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, appeared to be away a significant period. I didn't ponder the reason this might have been, but when it came to my go, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a great long one for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line knew.

An Experience of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any woman here. I am fully aware that, for women, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is standard practice. How many times have I seen women queuing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

In addition to the annoyance of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of humiliation about waiting there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was profoundly sobering to get a taste of it myself, seeing the women walk straight through the door while I was forced to line up dutifully in queue with my companions, fiddling at anything we had in our pockets and checking our handsets.

The Genre of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a whole form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant knowledge. Females, I surmise, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in pleasantries and an engaging insight or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my circle. The consensus is that within-the-line dialogue is limited to the rare exasperated look and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate mentioned it’s merely at the hand-washing stations subsequently that conversation tends to start up.

If I was a woman, I’d waste no time on either pleasantries or quiet. If I was forced, time and again, to wait in a shared procession simply for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the utter unfairness of it. A valuable metric for any modern culture would be gender parity in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for studies on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Procession

Back in my line, I tried to initiate some male camaraderie flowing about this unprecedented situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something along the lines of: “Well, this makes an unpleasant change, doesn’t it chaps?”

A fellow smiled, another appeared confused, a other man seemed awkward. A further person shook his head as if this was one more example of modern woes, political correctness etc. For the most part, silence prevailed. Someone exited, fastening his trousers. The line moved forward a position. A couple more men took a place at the rear of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Interaction

A female wafted out of the neighbouring toilet, all fresh and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I grinned bashfully at her, trying to convey recognition of this reversed scenario. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve done this a hundred more times and at that point I may give you the time of day.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She uttered a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I truly wouldn’t fault her.