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Shortly before Christmas, I had an extraordinary incident. I believe it proved instructive. This occurred at a gathering of some old friends, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but it's not pertinent. The present group were all blokes, which proves to be key.

A Strange Situation

The location was a tavern experiencing a roaring trade. A wasted session was enjoyed by everyone. Good fare, nice libations and unexpectedly humorous tales about dentistry. Inevitably, the time dawned for visits to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, looked to be absent a long time. I didn't contemplate why this might have been, but when it became my turn, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Sample of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any lady here. I am acutely aware that, for females, having to queue to use a convenience is standard practice. How many times have I seen women standing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

In addition to the hassle of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a tinge of indignity about lingering there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was profoundly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, watching the other sex glide through the entrance while I was compelled to stand solemnly in queue with my companions, looking distractedly at something we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a whole form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal knowledge. Women, I surmise, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, engaging in small talk and an interesting insight or two.

On this I’ve asked some women of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that queue-based dialogue is restricted to the rare exasperated look and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague told me it’s only at the washbasins later that discussion tends to break out.

Had I been a woman, I’d not spend a moment on both niceties or reticence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to stand in a shared procession only for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the sheer inequity of it. A useful metric for any civilised community would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m researching research on this.

Comradely Banter in the Queue

Back in my wait, I endeavoured to initiate some brotherly banter started about this unprecedented situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something like: “So, this is an unpleasant difference, right chaps?”

One person grinned, someone else looked blank, a third individual seemed awkward. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was one more manifestation of a failing society, woke madness etc. Aside from that, silence ensued. An individual exited, zipping up. The group advanced a position. Two more men entered the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Moment

A lady glided out of the adjacent toilet, all fresh and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I grinned apologetically at her, attempting to communicate recognition of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She said: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you blighter. Come back when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and then I might give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I really would not censure her.