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Shortly before the festive season, I had an unusual incident. I believe it did me good. This happened at a gathering of some old friends, who happen to be dental professionals, but this isn't relevant. The attending party were solely men, which proves to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The establishment was a pub/restaurant enjoying a roaring trade. A wasted daytime was shared by the group. Fine cuisine, fine libations and remarkably humorous stories about dentistry. Naturally, the point arrived for visits to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, looked to be gone a considerable while. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it was my go, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue knew.

An Experience of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for pity from any woman here. I am fully cognizant that, for females, being forced to wait to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I witnessed women waiting in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the annoyance of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a whiff of humiliation about waiting there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was truly bracing to have a sample of it myself, observing the women glide through the entrance while I was compelled to line up dutifully in queue with my fellow fellas, angling away at anything we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a entire conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal knowledge. Females, I imagine, have learned to be rather good at it, exchanging polite remarks and an interesting insight or two.

On this I’ve consulted some female friends of my knowledge. The general agreement is that intra-queue dialogue is restricted to the odd weary glance and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate informed me it’s only at the sinks later that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a female, I’d waste no time on both pleasantries or reticence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to queue in a shared procession merely for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the pure inequity of it. A valuable metric for any modern society would be equal waiting times in toilet lining-up periods. I’m seeking out data on this.

Male Interaction in the Line

Returning to my line, I tried to initiate some brotherly banter started about this novel state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something to the effect of: “Well, this is an disagreeable change, doesn’t it chaps?”

Someone smiled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a other man appeared embarrassed. Yet another shook his head as if this was one more example of a failing society, cultural decline etc. For the most part, silence prevailed. A man exited, adjusting his clothing. The group shuffled up a position. Another two men joined the end of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Interaction

A woman wafted out of the next-door toilet, all fragrant and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed bashfully at her, endeavouring to express recognition of this topsy-turvy situation. She remarked: “Don't come to me for support, you jerk. Come back when you’ve done this a hundred more times and at that point I might give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She said anything. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I really wouldn’t blame her.