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Just before the festive season, I experienced an extraordinary episode. I feel it was beneficial for me. This happened at a get-together of several mates, who happen to be tooth doctors, but it's not relevant. The present party were all blokes, which proves to be significant.

A Novel Predicament

The location was a tavern enjoying a excellent custom. A lost session was had by all. Nice food, nice drink and surprisingly entertaining anecdotes about teeth. Inevitably, the time dawned for visits to the gents. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, looked to be absent a long time. I didn't ponder why this could be, but when it came to my go, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line knew.

An Experience of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for pity from any lady here. I am obviously aware that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a restroom is the norm. On countless occasions have I observed women waiting in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Apart from the annoyance of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about waiting there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the other sex breeze through the door while I was compelled to line up dutifully in line with my mates, fiddling at anything we had in our pockets and checking our phones.

The Art of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a complete conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little knowledge. Females, I presume, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in polite remarks and an engaging comment or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some women of my knowledge. The general agreement is that queue-based communication is confined to the odd weary glance and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague informed me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations afterwards that discussion tends to break out.

Had I been a female, I’d refrain from on both pleasantries or silence. If I was obliged, over and over, to stand in a public line simply for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter injustice of it. A useful benchmark for any advanced culture would be balanced access in urination lining-up periods. I’m researching data on this.

Comradely Banter in the Line

Returning to my queue, I attempted to spark some friendly chat going about this new circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something to the effect of: “So, this represents an irksome variation, right boys?”

One person grinned, someone else looked blank, a third seemed awkward. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another manifestation of a failing society, political correctness etc. Otherwise, silence ensued. A man exited, zipping up. The group shuffled up a position. Two more men took a place at the back of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Moment

A lady emerged out of the neighbouring facility, all fragrant and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, attempting to convey an understanding of this topsy-turvy scenario. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for support, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and at that point I might give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She uttered nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I truly would not fault her.