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Just before Christmas, I experienced an extraordinary episode. I think it did me good. This occurred at a get-together of some old friends, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but that’s not pertinent. The attending group were solely men, which proves to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The establishment was a bar and eatery enjoying a roaring trade. A wasted daytime was shared by the group. Fine fare, good beverages and remarkably humorous tales about dentistry. As expected, the moment came for excursions to the gents. Those who went, I partially registered, looked to be away a significant period. I didn't ponder why this was, but when it came to my turn, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue recognised.

An Experience of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any woman here. I am obviously aware that, for women, having to queue to use a public toilet is standard practice. Repeatedly have I seen women waiting in a line while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the annoyance of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a hint of embarrassment about standing there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was truly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, observing the opposite gender walk straight through the portal while I was forced to wait patiently with others with my fellow fellas, fiddling at whatever we had in our jackets and checking our mobile devices.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant familiarity. Women, I surmise, have become adept to be rather good at it, exchanging polite remarks and an notable insight or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some women of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that queue-based communication is confined to the rare eye roll and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate told me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations afterwards that chat tends to break out.

If I was a lady, I’d waste no time on both pleasantries or reticence. If I was obliged, over and over, to stand in a public line only for the chance to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the sheer injustice of it. A valuable benchmark for any civilised culture would be balanced access in toilet waiting times. I’m looking for data on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Procession

During my time in my line, I attempted to initiate some brotherly banter flowing about this new situation of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something along the lines of: “So, this represents an irksome difference, right boys?”

A fellow chuckled, someone else appeared confused, a other man looked sheepish. Another rolled his eyes as if this was a further symptom of modern woes, cultural decline etc. For the most part, stillness ensued. An individual emerged, adjusting his clothing. The queue shuffled up a spot. Another two men took a place at the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Exchange

A female emerged out of the adjacent facility, all fresh and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled bashfully at her, endeavouring to express acknowledgement of this upside-down situation. Her response was: “Don't come to me for support, you blighter. Come back when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and at that point I might give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She uttered nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I truly could not censure her.