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Shortly before the holidays, I encountered an remarkable incident. I feel it did me good. This happened at a get-together of some old friends, who are incidentally dental professionals, but it's not pertinent. The attending crowd were exclusively male, which is key.

A Novel Scenario

The establishment was a pub/restaurant experiencing a excellent custom. A forgotten session was enjoyed by everyone. Fine cuisine, fine beverages and unexpectedly entertaining tales about dentistry. As expected, the moment dawned for excursions to the gents. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, seemed to be away a significant period. I didn't ponder why this was, but when it came to my go, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line recognised.

A Taste of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for pity from any lady here. I am fully aware that, for females, having to queue to use a restroom is standard practice. How many times have I seen women waiting in a row while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

In addition to the inconvenience of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a hint of indignity about standing there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was truly sobering to get a taste of it myself, observing the women walk straight through the entrance while I was obliged to wait patiently in queue with my mates, looking distractedly at anything we had in our pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Art of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little knowledge. Ladies, I presume, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, sharing small talk and an interesting observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that queue-based interaction is limited to the odd eye roll and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague informed me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations afterwards that chat tends to break out.

Were I a woman, I’d refrain from on either niceties or reticence. If I was forced, time and again, to queue in a shared procession simply for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the sheer injustice of it. A useful benchmark for any modern society would be gender parity in wee lining-up periods. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Line

Back in my wait, I endeavoured to get some brotherly banter started about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and said something like: “Ah, this represents an disagreeable variation, doesn’t it boys?”

A fellow smiled, another appeared confused, a other man looked sheepish. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another symptom of a failing society, political correctness etc. For the most part, stillness ensued. A man emerged, fastening his trousers. The group advanced a place. Another two men entered the back of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Interaction

A female emerged out of the adjacent toilet, all fragrant and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned bashfully at her, endeavouring to convey acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She said: “Don't turn to me for support, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve endured this another hundred times and then I could give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I honestly would not censure her.