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Just before Christmas, I encountered an remarkable situation. I think it did me good. This took place at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dental professionals, but that’s not relevant. The attending group were solely men, which turns out to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The establishment was a pub/restaurant doing a roaring trade. A lost daytime was had by all. Nice cuisine, good beverages and unexpectedly amusing anecdotes about dentistry. As expected, the point arrived for trips to the men's room. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, appeared to be away a long time. I didn't ponder why this might have been, but when it was my turn, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the men's. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line recognised.

A Sample of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any woman here. I am fully aware that, for females, needing to line up to use a public toilet is standard practice. On countless occasions have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a whiff of humiliation about lingering there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was profoundly sobering to get a taste of it myself, observing the other sex walk straight through the entrance while I was obliged to wait patiently with others with my mates, fiddling at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a entire conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little familiarity. Females, I presume, have developed skills to be rather good at it, sharing polite remarks and an notable comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my circle. The prevailing view is that queue-based interaction is limited to the occasional weary glance and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate told me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations subsequently that conversation tends to break out.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or reticence. If I was obliged, over and over, to wait in a shared procession simply for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the sheer unfairness of it. A handy benchmark for any modern society would be balanced access in urination waiting times. I’m looking for research on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Queue

Back in my wait, I endeavoured to spark some friendly chat flowing about this novel circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something along the lines of: “Well, this makes an disagreeable difference, doesn’t it chaps?”

Someone smiled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third individual appeared embarrassed. A further person shook his head as if this was a further symptom of a failing society, woke madness etc. Otherwise, silence prevailed. An individual exited, fastening his trousers. The group shuffled up a spot. Another two men took a place at the back of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Moment

A woman glided out of the next-door restroom, all fresh and at ease. It was just fine for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, trying to express acknowledgement of this upside-down scenario. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and only then I could give you the time.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She said anything. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I really would not blame her.