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Shortly before Christmas, I encountered an extraordinary situation. I think it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a meeting of some old friends, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but it's not pertinent. The assembled group were solely men, which is significant.

A Strange Situation

The location was a pub/restaurant doing a excellent custom. A forgotten daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Nice fare, nice beverages and surprisingly entertaining tales about oral health. As expected, the moment came for visits to the men's room. Those who departed, I partially registered, seemed to be away a significant period. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it came to my go, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Taste of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect pity from any woman here. I am acutely aware that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I witnessed women waiting in a row while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Beyond the hassle of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a hint of embarrassment about lingering there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was decidedly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the other sex walk straight through the portal while I was compelled to stand solemnly in line with my mates, fiddling at something we had in our pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Art of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a entire form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant familiarity. Females, I presume, have become adept to be rather good at it, exchanging small talk and an notable insight or two.

On this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my circle. The consensus is that within-the-line communication is restricted to the occasional exasperated look and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague told me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations later that conversation tends to break out.

Had I been a lady, I’d waste no time on both niceties or silence. If I was forced, over and over, to wait in a common queue simply for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the utter inequity of it. A useful metric for any modern society would be equal waiting times in wee queue durations. I’m researching research on this.

Male Chat in the Procession

During my time in my line, I attempted to get some brotherly banter started about this new circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and said something to the effect of: “Well, this makes an unpleasant difference, isn't it boys?”

Someone chuckled, another appeared confused, a third individual looked sheepish. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more example of modern woes, cultural decline etc. For the most part, silence reigned. Someone came out, fastening his trousers. The queue advanced a place. A couple more men entered the rear of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Exchange

A woman wafted out of the adjacent facility, all fragrant and at ease. It was just fine for some. I grinned apologetically at her, trying to communicate an understanding of this reversed scenario. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for support, you jerk. Return when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and at that point I may give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She said nothing. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly could not blame her.