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Just before Christmas, I encountered an unusual episode. I think it was beneficial for me. This happened at a meeting of several mates, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The present party were exclusively male, which turns out to be significant.

A Novel Predicament

The location was a tavern enjoying a excellent custom. A wasted afternoon was had by all. Fine cuisine, good libations and remarkably humorous tales about dentistry. Naturally, the moment dawned for visits to the gents. Those who went, I vaguely observed, seemed to be gone a significant period. I didn't ponder the reason this was, but when it was my turn, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue recognised.

An Experience of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any woman here. I am fully aware that, for females, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is the norm. How many times have I observed women standing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Apart from the hassle of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a hint of indignity about lingering there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was truly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the other sex glide through the portal while I was compelled to wait patiently with others with my mates, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant experience. Ladies, I presume, have learned to be rather good at it, sharing polite remarks and an notable insight or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some women of my circle. The prevailing view is that within-the-line communication is restricted to the odd exasperated look and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate told me it’s only at the hand-washing stations afterwards that chat tends to begin.

Were I a lady, I’d waste no time on either niceties or reticence. If I was compelled, over and over, to stand in a common queue merely for the chance to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the sheer inequity of it. A useful benchmark for any modern society would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m researching studies on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Queue

Returning to my line, I tried to spark some male camaraderie flowing about this novel situation of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something to the effect of: “Ah, this represents an disagreeable change, isn't it lads?”

Someone chuckled, another seemed nonplussed, a other man seemed awkward. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was a further example of modern woes, political correctness etc. Otherwise, stillness prevailed. An individual came out, adjusting his clothing. The line advanced a position. Another two men joined the end of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Moment

A woman wafted out of the next-door facility, all fragrant and at ease. It was just fine for some. I beamed bashfully at her, trying to convey an understanding of this reversed situation. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you bastard. Return when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and at that point I could give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She uttered nothing. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I really wouldn’t censure her.