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Shortly before the holidays, I encountered an remarkable incident. I think it did me good. This took place at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dentists, but it's not pertinent. The assembled group were all blokes, which proves to be relevant.

A Strange Scenario

The venue was a pub/restaurant doing a brisk business. A wasted session was shared by the group. Fine cuisine, fine drink and unexpectedly amusing tales about dentistry. Inevitably, the point came for trips to the gents. Those who went, I half-noticed, appeared to be absent a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it became my go, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space 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 recognised.

A Taste of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect pity from any lady here. I am fully aware that, for women, having to queue to use a convenience is standard practice. Repeatedly have I witnessed women queuing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the inconvenience of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about standing there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was decidedly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, observing the women breeze through the door while I was compelled to wait patiently with others with my companions, looking distractedly at something we had in our trouser pockets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a complete form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal familiarity. Ladies, I presume, have learned to be rather good at it, exchanging small talk and an interesting observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my circle. The general agreement is that within-the-line dialogue is restricted to the occasional exasperated look and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague informed me it’s exclusively at the washbasins subsequently that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a lady, I’d refrain from on either small talk or reticence. If I was obliged, time and again, to stand in a public line simply for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the sheer injustice of it. A handy metric for any advanced community would be gender parity in urination queue durations. I’m researching studies on this.

Male Banter in the Line

Returning to my wait, I endeavoured to get some male camaraderie started about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something like: “Well, this is an unpleasant change, doesn’t it chaps?”

A fellow smiled, another looked blank, a other man seemed awkward. Yet another shook his head as if this was one more manifestation of modern woes, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, stillness prevailed. A man came out, adjusting his clothing. The group moved forward a place. A couple more men took a place at the back of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Moment

A lady wafted out of the neighbouring toilet, all clean and at ease. It was all right for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, attempting to express acknowledgement of this reversed state of affairs. She said: “Don't turn to me for support, you bastard. Return when you’ve done this on a regular basis and at that point I might give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I really wouldn’t blame her.