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Just before the holidays, I experienced an unusual episode. I feel it did me good. This took place at a meeting of some old friends, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but this isn't pertinent. The present party were all blokes, which is significant.

A Novel Situation

The establishment was a bar and eatery enjoying a excellent custom. A lost session was enjoyed by everyone. Good food, fine beverages and remarkably entertaining tales about dentistry. As expected, the time came for visits to the men's room. Those who departed, I partially registered, seemed to be absent a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this was, but when it became me next, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line recognised.

An Experience of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect empathy from any woman here. I am fully conscious that, for women, having to queue to use a convenience is the norm. On countless occasions have I seen women queuing in a row while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Beyond the hassle of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a hint of embarrassment about lingering there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was decidedly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, watching the other sex walk straight through the portal while I was obliged to stand solemnly in queue with my companions, fiddling at anything we had in our jackets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Practice of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a entire conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little knowledge. Ladies, I imagine, have learned to be quite proficient at it, sharing small talk and an notable insight or two.

On this I’ve asked some women of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that queue-based communication is confined to the occasional weary glance and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate mentioned it’s merely at the hand-washing stations later that discussion tends to begin.

If I was a lady, I’d not spend a moment on either niceties or silence. If I was forced, over and over, to wait in a common queue merely for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the sheer injustice of it. A handy measure for any modern community would be equal waiting times in urination waiting times. I’m researching data on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Queue

Returning to my line, I attempted to initiate some male camaraderie going about this novel state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and said something along the lines of: “Well, this represents an irksome difference, doesn’t it boys?”

One person grinned, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third individual seemed awkward. A further person shook his head as if this was one more example of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, silence prevailed. An individual came out, adjusting his clothing. The queue moved forward a place. Two more men entered the rear of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Exchange

A lady glided out of the next-door restroom, all fragrant and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, attempting to express recognition of this topsy-turvy situation. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you blighter. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and only then I might give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I really could not blame her.