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Shortly before the holidays, I experienced an unusual episode. I think it was beneficial for me. This took place at a gathering of some old friends, who happen to be tooth doctors, but it's not important. The attending group were exclusively male, which proves to be key.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The establishment was a pub/restaurant enjoying a roaring trade. A lost daytime was had by all. Nice fare, good drink and remarkably humorous anecdotes about dentistry. Inevitably, the moment came for excursions to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, seemed to be absent a considerable while. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it came to me next, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue knew.

An Experience of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any female reader here. I am obviously conscious that, for females, needing to line up to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I observed women standing in a row while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Apart from the annoyance of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a hint of indignity about waiting there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was truly bracing to have a sample of it myself, seeing the opposite gender walk straight through the door while I was compelled to wait patiently in line with my mates, fiddling at whatever we had in our jackets and consulting our phones.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a whole conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal experience. Ladies, I presume, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging polite remarks and an notable comment or two.

On this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my circle. The general agreement is that intra-queue interaction is restricted to the occasional weary glance and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate mentioned it’s merely at the hand-washing stations subsequently that chat tends to start up.

If I was a lady, I’d not spend a moment on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was forced, time and again, to stand in a shared procession merely for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the utter unfairness of it. A useful metric for any civilised culture would be balanced access in wee queue durations. I’m researching research on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Line

Back in my queue, I endeavoured to spark some brotherly banter flowing about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something to the effect of: “Well, this represents an disagreeable difference, doesn’t it boys?”

Someone chuckled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third looked sheepish. Yet another shook his head as if this was a further example of a failing society, cultural decline etc. For the most part, stillness ensued. Someone came out, zipping up. The queue shuffled up a place. Two more men took a place at the back of it. I sighed.

A Silent Exchange

A woman wafted out of the next-door restroom, all clean and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, attempting to express acknowledgement of this upside-down scenario. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for support, you jerk. Return when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and then I might give you the time of day.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She said anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I truly wouldn’t blame her.