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Just before Christmas, I experienced an extraordinary situation. I believe it did me good. This happened at a gathering of several mates, who are, as it happens dentists, but it's not relevant. The present group were all blokes, which turns out to be significant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The establishment was a bar and eatery enjoying a brisk business. A wasted session was shared by the group. Good food, fine libations and remarkably amusing stories about dentistry. Inevitably, the moment came for excursions to the men's room. Those who departed, I partially registered, looked to be gone a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this was, but when it was me next, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line recognised.

A Sample of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect pity from any female reader here. I am fully aware that, for women, having to queue to use a restroom is standard practice. How many times have I witnessed women waiting in a line while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the hassle of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a tinge of indignity about standing there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly bracing to have a sample of it myself, observing the women walk straight through the entrance while I was compelled to wait patiently in queue with my fellow fellas, angling away at whatever we had in our pockets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a whole conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal experience. Ladies, I imagine, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, sharing polite remarks and an notable insight or two.

On this I’ve polled some women of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that within-the-line dialogue is restricted to the odd eye roll and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate informed me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations afterwards that discussion tends to break out.

If I was a woman, I’d not spend a moment on both niceties or quiet. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to stand in a public line merely for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the utter injustice of it. A handy benchmark for any modern society would be balanced access in wee queue durations. I’m looking for studies on this.

Male Interaction in the Line

During my time in my queue, I endeavoured to spark some brotherly banter started about this novel circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something along the lines of: “Ah, this represents an unpleasant change, isn't it chaps?”

Someone grinned, a second seemed nonplussed, a other man seemed awkward. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was one more symptom of modern woes, cultural decline etc. For the most part, quiet prevailed. A man exited, adjusting his clothing. The line moved forward a position. A couple more men took a place at the back of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Exchange

A lady wafted out of the neighbouring facility, all fresh and relaxed. It was all right for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, endeavouring to convey acknowledgement of this upside-down situation. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you jerk. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and only then I might give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She uttered a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I really could not blame her.