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In the run-up to Christmas, I had an remarkable incident. I believe it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a meeting of several mates, who happen to be dentists, but that’s not important. The attending group were solely men, which turns out to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The establishment was a bar and eatery experiencing a brisk business. A wasted session was shared by the group. Good fare, nice libations and surprisingly humorous tales about oral health. As expected, the point came for visits to the gents. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, looked to be absent a significant period. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it became me next, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering recognised.

An Experience of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect pity from any lady here. I am obviously aware that, for women, needing to line up to use a restroom is standard practice. Repeatedly have I witnessed women standing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Beyond the hassle of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of humiliation about waiting there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was truly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, observing the women breeze through the entrance while I was compelled to stand solemnly with others with my fellow fellas, angling away at something we had in our jackets and consulting our handsets.

The Art of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a complete conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant knowledge. Females, I presume, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging small talk and an engaging observation or two.

On this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is confined to the odd weary glance and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague told me it’s exclusively at the washbasins later that conversation tends to break out.

Had I been a lady, I’d refrain from on both small talk or quiet. If I was compelled, time and again, to stand in a common queue only for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the sheer unfairness of it. A useful measure for any advanced community would be equal waiting times in toilet lining-up periods. I’m researching data on this.

Male Interaction in the Procession

Returning to my queue, I endeavoured to spark some male camaraderie going about this novel circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something along the lines of: “Ah, this makes an disagreeable variation, right lads?”

A fellow chuckled, another appeared confused, a third seemed awkward. Another shook his head as if this was one more symptom of modern woes, woke madness etc. Otherwise, stillness reigned. A man emerged, zipping up. The group moved forward a place. Another two men took a place at the back of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Exchange

A female emerged out of the next-door facility, all fresh and unhurried. It was all right for some. I beamed bashfully at her, attempting to communicate acknowledgement of this reversed state of affairs. She remarked: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve done this a hundred more times and at that point I may give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She didn’t say a word. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I truly wouldn’t censure her.