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Just before the holidays, I encountered an unusual episode. I believe it was beneficial for me. This took place at a meeting of several mates, who happen to be dental professionals, but that’s not important. The present crowd were solely men, which proves to be key.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The establishment was a pub/restaurant experiencing a brisk business. A forgotten daytime was shared by the group. Good fare, nice drink and remarkably humorous stories about teeth. As expected, the point dawned for excursions to the men's room. Those who went, I vaguely observed, seemed to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it became my go, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men's. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue knew.

A Sample of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for empathy from any female reader here. I am acutely cognizant that, for women, being forced to wait to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I seen women standing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Beyond the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of humiliation about lingering there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was truly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, watching the women glide through the door while I was forced to stand solemnly with others with my companions, angling away at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a whole form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal knowledge. Women, I surmise, have become adept to be rather good at it, sharing polite remarks and an interesting insight or two.

On this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my circle. The general agreement is that intra-queue communication is limited to the occasional weary glance and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate mentioned it’s only at the hand-washing stations subsequently that discussion tends to begin.

Had I been a female, I’d refrain from on either pleasantries or quiet. If I was compelled, time and again, to wait in a common queue only for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter unfairness of it. A valuable metric for any advanced culture would be gender parity in toilet queue durations. I’m looking for studies on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Procession

During my time in my wait, I attempted to initiate some friendly chat flowing about this new situation of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something along the lines of: “Ah, this makes an unpleasant change, doesn’t it boys?”

Someone smiled, someone else looked blank, a third looked sheepish. Another shook his head as if this was one more symptom of modern woes, political correctness etc. Otherwise, stillness prevailed. Someone emerged, fastening his trousers. The queue moved forward a spot. Another two men joined the rear of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Interaction

A woman wafted out of the adjacent facility, all clean and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed apologetically at her, endeavouring to convey an understanding of this upside-down situation. She said: “Don't turn to me for support, you bastard. Return when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and then I might give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She uttered nothing. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly would not fault her.