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Shortly before the holidays, I encountered an extraordinary incident. I think it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a gathering of some old friends, who happen to be tooth doctors, but this isn't important. The assembled crowd were exclusively male, which proves to be significant.

A Strange Scenario

The establishment was a pub/restaurant experiencing a brisk business. A lost session was enjoyed by everyone. Good food, nice libations and unexpectedly humorous stories about oral health. As expected, the moment came for visits to the male facilities. Those who went, I vaguely observed, appeared to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this might have been, but when it became my turn, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Taste of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any woman here. I am obviously aware that, for women, having to queue to use a restroom is standard practice. How many times have I seen women standing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Apart from the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about lingering there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly bracing to get a taste of it myself, observing the women walk straight through the entrance while I was obliged to wait patiently with others with my fellow fellas, angling away at something we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Genre of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a whole conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little familiarity. Ladies, I presume, have developed skills to be rather good at it, engaging in small talk and an notable observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some female friends of my knowledge. The consensus is that within-the-line interaction is confined to the occasional eye roll and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate told me it’s exclusively at the washbasins afterwards that chat tends to begin.

Were I a woman, I’d not spend a moment on both pleasantries or silence. If I was compelled, over and over, to queue in a common queue simply for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter inequity of it. A useful measure for any advanced society would be gender parity in wee lining-up periods. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Male Banter in the Procession

During my time in my queue, I attempted to get some brotherly banter flowing about this novel state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something like: “So, this is an disagreeable difference, right boys?”

A fellow grinned, someone else appeared confused, a other man appeared embarrassed. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more symptom of modern woes, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, silence reigned. Someone emerged, fastening his trousers. The queue advanced a position. Two more men entered the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Moment

A lady glided out of the next-door facility, all fresh and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed bashfully at her, trying to communicate an understanding of this topsy-turvy situation. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you bastard. Come back when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and at that point I might give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She said nothing. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I really could not blame her.