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Shortly before the festive season, I experienced an extraordinary situation. I believe it proved instructive. This occurred at a gathering of several mates, who are incidentally dentists, but it's not relevant. The assembled group were exclusively male, which proves to be key.

A Strange Scenario

The venue was a bar and eatery enjoying a brisk business. A lost afternoon was shared by the group. Nice fare, nice beverages and unexpectedly humorous tales about teeth. As expected, the time arrived for trips to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, looked to be absent a long time. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it became my turn, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line recognised.

A Taste of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect empathy from any female reader here. I am fully cognizant that, for women, having to queue to use a public toilet is standard practice. Repeatedly have I witnessed women standing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the annoyance of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about waiting there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was truly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, observing the other sex glide through the door while I was forced to line up dutifully in line with my mates, looking distractedly at something we had in our pockets and consulting our phones.

The Genre of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a complete conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little familiarity. Ladies, I imagine, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, sharing pleasantries and an engaging insight or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that intra-queue communication is confined to the rare weary glance and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate informed me it’s only at the sinks later that conversation tends to begin.

If I was a female, I’d waste no time on both niceties or reticence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to wait in a common queue simply for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like crazy at the utter inequity of it. A handy metric for any civilised culture would be gender parity in wee queue durations. I’m researching data on this.

Male Banter in the Queue

Back in my queue, I endeavoured to get some male camaraderie started about this new state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and said something like: “Well, this makes an disagreeable change, right lads?”

Someone chuckled, someone else appeared confused, a other man looked sheepish. Yet another shook his head as if this was one more example of modern woes, political correctness etc. For the most part, silence ensued. An individual came out, adjusting his clothing. The group shuffled up a place. Another two 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 unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled bashfully at her, endeavouring to communicate recognition of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She remarked: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve done this another hundred times and only then I could give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She said anything. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I truly could not fault her.