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Shortly before the holidays, I encountered an unusual incident. I think it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a gathering of some old friends, who are incidentally dental professionals, but it's not relevant. The present crowd were all blokes, which is key.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The venue was a tavern experiencing a brisk business. A forgotten afternoon was had by all. Good fare, nice libations and surprisingly humorous tales about teeth. Inevitably, the moment arrived for visits to the gents. Those who went, I partially registered, seemed to be away a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it became my go, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Sample of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely aware that, for females, needing to line up to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I seen women waiting in a row while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Beyond the annoyance of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a hint of humiliation about waiting there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was profoundly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, observing the women breeze through the door while I was forced to wait patiently in queue with my companions, fiddling at anything we had in our pockets and checking our phones.

The Art of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a complete form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant familiarity. Ladies, I imagine, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in pleasantries and an engaging insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some women of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that intra-queue interaction is confined to the odd exasperated look and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate informed me it’s only at the washbasins afterwards that discussion tends to break out.

Had I been a woman, I’d waste no time on both niceties or quiet. If I was compelled, over and over, to queue in a shared procession only for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the pure inequity of it. A valuable benchmark for any modern society would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for research on this.

Comradely Chat in the Queue

Returning to my line, I endeavoured to initiate some male camaraderie flowing about this unprecedented situation of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and said something along the lines of: “Well, this is an irksome difference, right chaps?”

Someone smiled, another seemed nonplussed, a third individual seemed awkward. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further symptom of a failing society, woke madness etc. For the most part, stillness ensued. Someone exited, zipping up. The line moved forward a position. Another two men took a place at the back of it. I sighed.

A Silent Interaction

A woman glided out of the adjacent toilet, all clean and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed apologetically at her, trying to communicate acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you bastard. Return when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and at that point I could give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She said nothing. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I really would not blame her.