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Shortly before Christmas, I had an extraordinary incident. I think it did me good. This happened at a meeting of several mates, who happen to be dentists, but it's not relevant. The attending group were solely men, which is significant.

A Novel Situation

The venue was a tavern doing a brisk business. A lost session was had by all. Fine cuisine, good drink and remarkably entertaining tales about dentistry. Inevitably, the point came for visits to the male facilities. Those who departed, I partially registered, appeared to be away a long time. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it was me next, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men's. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue knew.

An Experience of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for sympathy from any woman here. I am obviously cognizant that, for ladies, having to queue to use a public toilet is the norm. On countless occasions have I observed women standing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Beyond the hassle of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a tinge of humiliation about lingering there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was profoundly sobering to have a sample of it myself, seeing the other sex walk straight through the portal while I was obliged to wait patiently with others with my fellow fellas, angling away at whatever we had in our pockets and checking our handsets.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant familiarity. Females, I surmise, have learned to be rather good at it, engaging in pleasantries and an notable insight or two.

On this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is confined to the occasional weary glance and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate told me it’s only at the sinks subsequently that discussion tends to break out.

Had I been a lady, I’d refrain from on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was compelled, over and over, to wait in a shared procession merely for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the sheer injustice of it. A useful measure for any advanced community would be gender parity in wee queue durations. I’m seeking out research on this.

Male Chat in the Procession

Back in my queue, I endeavoured to initiate some male camaraderie flowing about this unprecedented situation of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something along the lines of: “Well, this is an disagreeable difference, doesn’t it chaps?”

One person smiled, someone else looked blank, a third seemed awkward. Another rolled his eyes as if this was one more symptom of modern woes, political correctness etc. For the most part, silence prevailed. An individual exited, fastening his trousers. The queue shuffled up a spot. A couple more men took a place at the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Moment

A lady emerged out of the adjacent facility, all clean and at ease. It was all right for some. I smiled apologetically at her, attempting to communicate acknowledgement of this reversed scenario. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you jerk. Return when you’ve done this on a regular basis and at that point I may give you the time of day.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She uttered nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I honestly could not blame her.