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Just before Christmas, I experienced an remarkable situation. I believe it did me good. This happened at a meeting of some old friends, who happen to be dental professionals, but this isn't relevant. The attending crowd were exclusively male, which is relevant.

A Strange Predicament

The venue was a pub/restaurant experiencing a roaring trade. A lost session was enjoyed by everyone. Good fare, nice libations and surprisingly entertaining stories about teeth. Naturally, the moment dawned for visits to the male facilities. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, seemed to be gone a considerable while. I didn't ponder the reason this might have been, but when it was my turn, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Sample of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect empathy from any female reader here. I am acutely conscious that, for women, needing to line up to use a public toilet is standard practice. How many times have I witnessed women standing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Apart from the hassle of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of humiliation about standing there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was profoundly sobering to get a taste of it myself, seeing the other sex walk straight through the portal while I was obliged to line up dutifully in line with my fellow fellas, fiddling at anything we had in our pockets and checking our mobile devices.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant knowledge. Ladies, I imagine, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, exchanging pleasantries and an interesting comment or two.

On this I’ve asked some female friends of my acquaintance. The consensus is that intra-queue communication is confined to the occasional weary glance and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate informed me it’s exclusively at the sinks subsequently that discussion tends to break out.

Had I been a female, I’d waste no time on both pleasantries or silence. If I was forced, over and over, to wait in a public line only for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the pure injustice of it. A valuable metric for any modern culture would be gender parity in toilet lining-up periods. I’m researching studies on this.

Comradely Chat in the Procession

During my time in my queue, I endeavoured to spark some friendly chat started about this novel circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something to the effect of: “Well, this is an unpleasant change, isn't it lads?”

A fellow chuckled, a second seemed nonplussed, a third individual seemed awkward. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further example of modern woes, woke madness etc. Aside from that, quiet reigned. Someone came out, zipping up. The queue moved forward a spot. Another two men took a place at the rear of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Exchange

A lady wafted out of the next-door toilet, all fresh and unhurried. It was all right for some. I smiled bashfully at her, endeavouring to communicate acknowledgement of this upside-down scenario. She remarked: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve done this a hundred more times and at that point I may give you the time.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I truly could not censure her.