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Just before Christmas, I encountered an unusual situation. I feel it was beneficial for me. This happened at a meeting of several mates, who are incidentally dentists, but that’s not pertinent. The present party were all blokes, which is significant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The venue was a tavern experiencing a excellent custom. A lost afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Fine food, fine drink and unexpectedly entertaining tales about dentistry. Inevitably, the moment came for excursions to the men's room. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, seemed to be absent a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this might have been, but when it became me next, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a long queue for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue knew.

A Taste of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any female reader here. I am fully conscious that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I witnessed women queuing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the hassle of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a hint of humiliation about standing there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly bracing to have a sample of it myself, watching the women breeze through the entrance while I was compelled to stand solemnly with others with my mates, fiddling at anything we had in our jackets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal familiarity. Ladies, I surmise, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, sharing polite remarks and an notable observation or two.

On this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The general agreement is that queue-based dialogue is restricted to the rare weary glance and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague told me it’s merely at the sinks later that conversation tends to begin.

If I was a woman, I’d refrain from on both niceties or quiet. If I was forced, time and again, to queue in a public line simply for the chance to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the pure inequity of it. A handy measure for any civilised culture would be balanced access in urination queue durations. I’m looking for research on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Line

Returning to my queue, I endeavoured to spark some friendly chat going about this novel situation of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something like: “Ah, this represents an disagreeable difference, doesn’t it boys?”

Someone grinned, another seemed nonplussed, a third appeared embarrassed. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was yet another manifestation of a failing society, woke madness etc. Aside from that, quiet prevailed. A man emerged, zipping up. The queue moved forward a position. A couple more men joined the end of it. I sighed.

A Silent Moment

A lady glided out of the next-door facility, all clean and at ease. It was just fine for some. I smiled bashfully at her, attempting to communicate an understanding of this upside-down situation. She said: “Don't turn to me for support, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and then I might give you the time.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She uttered nothing. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I really wouldn’t censure her.