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Just before Christmas, I encountered an unusual episode. I feel it did me good. This took place at a get-together of some old friends, who happen to be dental professionals, but that’s not relevant. The assembled party were all blokes, which proves to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The location was a tavern experiencing a roaring trade. A lost daytime was had by all. Nice fare, fine drink and surprisingly humorous stories about oral health. As expected, the point came for visits to the gents. Those who went, I half-noticed, seemed to be absent a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this was, but when it came to my go, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the men's. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Taste of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any female reader here. I am obviously conscious that, for females, needing to line up to use a restroom is standard practice. Repeatedly have I seen women waiting in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Beyond the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a hint of indignity about standing there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was profoundly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, observing the opposite gender breeze through the door while I was compelled to line up dutifully in line with my fellow fellas, angling away at something we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little familiarity. Females, I surmise, have become adept to be rather good at it, sharing polite remarks and an engaging observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is confined to the rare eye roll and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate informed me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations later that chat tends to break out.

Had I been a woman, I’d waste no time on both pleasantries or silence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to queue in a shared procession only for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the utter unfairness of it. A useful measure for any advanced society would be equal waiting times in wee waiting times. I’m seeking out research on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Queue

Back in my wait, I attempted to initiate some brotherly banter started about this novel circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something along the lines of: “So, this represents an disagreeable variation, doesn’t it boys?”

One person chuckled, a second seemed nonplussed, a third individual appeared embarrassed. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further symptom of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, quiet reigned. Someone came out, adjusting his clothing. The line advanced a place. A couple more men took a place at the back of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Moment

A female emerged out of the neighbouring facility, all fragrant and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed bashfully at her, attempting to communicate an understanding of this upside-down state of affairs. She said: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you bastard. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and then I could give you the time of day.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She uttered anything. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I truly could not fault her.