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In the run-up to the holidays, I had an remarkable situation. I think it proved instructive. This happened at a get-together of some old friends, who happen to be dentists, but it's not important. The assembled crowd were exclusively male, which turns out to be significant.

A Strange Situation

The venue was a tavern doing a roaring trade. A lost session was shared by the group. Fine cuisine, good libations and surprisingly amusing stories about oral health. Naturally, the point arrived for excursions to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, seemed to be away a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it came to my go, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line recognised.

A Sample of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any female reader here. I am fully cognizant that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is the norm. On countless occasions have I witnessed women standing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Beyond the annoyance of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of humiliation about lingering there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was truly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the women walk straight through the door while I was obliged to line up dutifully in line with my fellow fellas, fiddling at something we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a whole conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant familiarity. Females, I presume, have developed skills to be rather good at it, exchanging pleasantries and an interesting comment or two.

On this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The consensus is that within-the-line communication is confined to the odd eye roll and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate told me it’s exclusively at the washbasins later that conversation tends to begin.

Had I been a female, I’d waste no time on both pleasantries or silence. If I was forced, time and again, to queue in a common queue merely for the chance to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the utter unfairness of it. A handy metric for any modern society would be balanced access in toilet lining-up periods. I’m looking for studies on this.

Male Interaction in the Line

Returning to my wait, I endeavoured to get some brotherly banter flowing about this unprecedented situation of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and said something like: “So, this makes an disagreeable variation, isn't it boys?”

A fellow smiled, a second appeared confused, a other man looked sheepish. A further person shook his head as if this was one more example of a failing society, woke madness etc. Otherwise, stillness reigned. A man emerged, adjusting his clothing. The line advanced a spot. A couple more men entered the rear of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Exchange

A woman wafted out of the adjacent facility, all fragrant and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled bashfully at her, attempting to express acknowledgement of this reversed situation. She remarked: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and at that point I could give you the time of day.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She said a word. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly would not fault her.