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Just before the holidays, I had an extraordinary incident. I feel it proved instructive. This occurred at a meeting of several mates, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but that’s not important. The present crowd were solely men, which proves to be significant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The location was a pub/restaurant doing a roaring trade. A wasted session was shared by the group. Good food, good drink and unexpectedly humorous anecdotes about teeth. Naturally, the moment came for visits to the men's room. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, looked to be away a considerable while. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it was my go, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering recognised.

An Experience of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for empathy from any woman here. I am obviously cognizant that, for women, being forced to wait to use a convenience is standard practice. How many times have I seen women queuing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Apart from the inconvenience of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of indignity about waiting there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was truly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, observing the other sex glide through the entrance while I was compelled to wait patiently with others with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at something we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Art of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a entire form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal knowledge. Ladies, I surmise, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging polite remarks and an engaging insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some female friends of my circle. The prevailing view is that queue-based dialogue is confined to the rare eye roll and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague told me it’s merely at the washbasins subsequently that chat tends to begin.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both pleasantries or silence. If I was forced, over and over, to stand in a shared procession simply for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the pure unfairness of it. A valuable benchmark for any civilised society would be equal waiting times in wee waiting times. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Procession

During my time in my wait, I tried to spark some friendly chat flowing about this unprecedented situation of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and said something along the lines of: “Well, this represents an unpleasant difference, doesn’t it chaps?”

Someone smiled, another appeared confused, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Yet another shook his head as if this was a further example of modern woes, cultural decline etc. For the most part, stillness prevailed. An individual exited, adjusting his clothing. The line advanced a position. A couple more men entered the end of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Exchange

A lady wafted out of the adjacent toilet, all clean and at ease. It was just fine for some. I smiled bashfully at her, endeavouring to communicate acknowledgement of this reversed state of affairs. She said: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve done this another hundred times and only then I may give you the time.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She uttered a word. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I truly could not censure her.