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Shortly before Christmas, I experienced an remarkable incident. I believe it was beneficial for me. This took place at a gathering of several mates, who are incidentally dental professionals, but this isn't pertinent. The attending crowd were solely men, which is key.

A Novel Situation

The establishment was a tavern doing a roaring trade. A lost session was had by all. Good cuisine, nice libations and remarkably amusing anecdotes about teeth. Inevitably, the point came for visits to the male facilities. Those who departed, I partially registered, seemed to be away a long time. I didn't contemplate why this might have been, but when it was my turn, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue knew.

A Taste of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for sympathy from any lady here. I am acutely conscious that, for women, having to queue to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I witnessed women waiting in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the hassle of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of humiliation about standing there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was truly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, seeing the other sex walk straight through the door while I was compelled to stand solemnly in line with my companions, fiddling at anything we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal experience. Females, I imagine, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging pleasantries and an notable insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that queue-based interaction is limited to the occasional exasperated look and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague told me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations subsequently that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a female, I’d waste no time on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was compelled, over and over, to stand in a common queue simply for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the sheer injustice of it. A handy measure for any modern community would be gender parity in wee queue durations. I’m looking for studies on this.

Male Interaction in the Procession

Back in my wait, I attempted to get some brotherly banter flowing about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something along the lines of: “Ah, this is an unpleasant change, right chaps?”

A fellow chuckled, another looked blank, a other man seemed awkward. A further person shook his head as if this was yet another manifestation of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, silence ensued. An individual came out, zipping up. The line advanced a position. Another two men joined the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Moment

A lady emerged out of the next-door restroom, all fresh and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled bashfully at her, trying to express recognition of this topsy-turvy scenario. She said: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you blighter. Return when you’ve endured this another hundred times and at that point I may give you the time.”

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