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Just before the festive season, I encountered an remarkable incident. I feel it did me good. This occurred at a get-together of some old friends, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but this isn't relevant. The assembled group were solely men, which turns out to be key.

A Strange Predicament

The establishment was a bar and eatery doing a brisk business. A wasted daytime was had by all. Good food, nice libations and surprisingly amusing anecdotes about dentistry. Naturally, the point dawned for trips to the men's room. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, looked to be gone a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it came to my go, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line recognised.

A Taste of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any woman here. I am obviously conscious that, for females, needing to line up to use a public toilet is the norm. On countless occasions have I witnessed women standing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Apart from the inconvenience of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a hint of humiliation about standing there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was decidedly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, watching the other sex walk straight through the portal while I was obliged to line up dutifully in queue with my companions, angling away at whatever we had in our jackets and checking our mobile devices.

The Genre of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a whole form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little experience. Females, I imagine, have learned to be rather good at it, sharing pleasantries and an notable observation or two.

On this I’ve asked some women of my circle. The consensus is that intra-queue dialogue is confined to the rare eye roll and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate told me it’s only at the hand-washing stations afterwards that conversation tends to start up.

If I was a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to queue in a shared procession simply for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter inequity of it. A handy metric for any modern culture would be balanced access in toilet waiting times. I’m seeking out research on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Line

Back in my wait, I tried to initiate some brotherly banter flowing about this new situation of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something to the effect of: “Well, this makes an unpleasant difference, isn't it boys?”

One person smiled, another appeared confused, a third seemed awkward. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another manifestation of a failing society, political correctness etc. Otherwise, stillness prevailed. An individual emerged, zipping up. The group advanced a place. Another two men took a place at the back of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Exchange

A woman wafted out of the neighbouring restroom, all fresh and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled apologetically at her, trying to express recognition of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for support, you bastard. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and only then I might give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She uttered anything. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly would not blame her.