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Just before the festive season, I had an unusual incident. I think it did me good. This happened at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dentists, but that’s not relevant. The attending crowd were solely men, which is relevant.

A Novel Predicament

The venue was a pub/restaurant doing a roaring trade. A wasted afternoon was had by all. Fine cuisine, fine beverages and surprisingly humorous anecdotes about teeth. Naturally, the time dawned for visits to the male facilities. Those who went, I vaguely observed, seemed to be absent a considerable while. I didn't contemplate the reason this might have been, but when it was my go, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a great long one for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Taste of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect empathy from any female reader here. I am acutely aware that, for females, being forced to wait to use a convenience is standard practice. Repeatedly have I witnessed women standing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

In addition to the hassle of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a hint of embarrassment about lingering there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was truly sobering to get a taste of it myself, observing the opposite gender glide through the entrance while I was compelled to line up dutifully in line with my mates, looking distractedly at something we had in our pockets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a whole conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal knowledge. Ladies, I presume, have developed skills to be rather good at it, engaging in polite remarks and an engaging insight or two.

On this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my circle. The prevailing view is that within-the-line interaction is restricted to the rare weary glance and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate told me it’s only at the washbasins afterwards that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or quiet. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to stand in a public line only for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the pure unfairness of it. A handy metric for any civilised society would be gender parity in toilet queue durations. I’m researching data on this.

Male Chat in the Queue

During my time in my line, I attempted to spark some male camaraderie started about this new circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something along the lines of: “Ah, this represents an irksome change, right boys?”

Someone chuckled, another seemed nonplussed, a other man appeared embarrassed. Another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another manifestation of modern woes, woke madness etc. Aside from that, quiet ensued. An individual emerged, zipping up. The line shuffled up a spot. A couple more men entered the back of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Exchange

A woman emerged out of the next-door restroom, all fresh and at ease. It was just fine for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, attempting to convey recognition of this topsy-turvy situation. She said: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you blighter. Return when you’ve done this on a regular basis and only then I may give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She said a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I really could not fault her.