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Shortly before the holidays, I experienced an unusual incident. I think it did me good. This happened at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dental professionals, but this isn't pertinent. The assembled party were all blokes, which turns out to be key.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The establishment was a tavern enjoying a excellent custom. A forgotten afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Nice fare, good beverages and remarkably humorous tales about teeth. Inevitably, the point dawned for visits to the gents. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, looked to be away a significant period. I didn't ponder why this might have been, but when it was me next, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering knew.

A Sample of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any woman here. I am obviously aware that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is the norm. Repeatedly have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the hassle of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about standing there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly bracing to have a sample of it myself, seeing the other sex glide through the door while I was compelled to line up dutifully in queue with my companions, looking distractedly at anything we had in our pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Art of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal knowledge. Women, I presume, have learned to be quite proficient at it, engaging in pleasantries and an engaging comment or two.

On this I’ve polled some female friends of my circle. The general agreement is that queue-based dialogue is restricted to the occasional exasperated look and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague told me it’s only at the hand-washing stations afterwards that discussion tends to begin.

Had I been a female, I’d not spend a moment on both niceties or reticence. If I was compelled, over and over, to queue in a common queue only for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the pure inequity of it. A valuable measure for any civilised community would be gender parity in wee waiting times. I’m looking for studies on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Procession

Back in my wait, I endeavoured to get some male camaraderie flowing about this novel circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something to the effect of: “So, this makes an unpleasant variation, isn't it chaps?”

One person chuckled, another looked blank, a third appeared embarrassed. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further example of a failing society, woke madness etc. Otherwise, silence prevailed. Someone exited, zipping up. The line moved forward a position. Another two men took a place at the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Moment

A female wafted out of the next-door restroom, all clean and unhurried. It was all right for some. I grinned bashfully at her, trying to express recognition of this upside-down state of affairs. She said: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve done this on a regular basis and then I might give you the time of day.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She uttered nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly wouldn’t fault her.