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Shortly before the festive season, I had an remarkable episode. I feel it did me good. This happened at a meeting of several mates, who happen to be dental professionals, but that’s not pertinent. The present group were solely men, which is key.

A Novel Scenario

The venue was a tavern enjoying a brisk business. A forgotten afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Fine fare, fine drink and remarkably humorous stories about oral health. Inevitably, the moment arrived for visits to the gents. Those who departed, I partially registered, appeared to be away a significant period. I didn't contemplate the reason this was, but when it became my go, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue recognised.

An Experience of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any lady here. I am obviously conscious that, for females, needing to line up to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Apart from the hassle of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of humiliation about waiting there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, seeing the opposite gender breeze through the entrance while I was forced to wait patiently in line with my companions, looking distractedly at anything we had in our pockets and checking our mobile devices.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant knowledge. Females, I surmise, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging small talk and an interesting insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some female friends of my circle. The consensus is that intra-queue dialogue is confined to the rare eye roll and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate told me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations afterwards that chat tends to start up.

Had I been a woman, I’d not spend a moment on both pleasantries or silence. If I was forced, time and again, to stand in a shared procession merely for the chance to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the utter unfairness of it. A useful benchmark for any advanced community would be gender parity in urination lining-up periods. I’m looking for studies on this.

Male Chat in the Line

Back in my queue, I tried to spark some brotherly banter flowing about this new situation of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something to the effect of: “Well, this is an irksome change, right chaps?”

A fellow chuckled, a second seemed nonplussed, a third seemed awkward. Another shook his head as if this was yet another symptom of a failing society, cultural decline etc. For the most part, stillness prevailed. A man emerged, fastening his trousers. The group shuffled up a place. Two more men took a place at the end of it. I sighed.

A Silent Moment

A lady glided out of the neighbouring facility, all fragrant and at ease. It was all right for some. I smiled bashfully at her, trying to convey recognition of this reversed state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve done this on a regular basis and then I may give you the time of day.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She didn’t say a word. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly would not fault her.