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Shortly before the holidays, I had an remarkable episode. I believe it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a meeting of several mates, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but this isn't pertinent. The assembled party were all blokes, which turns out to be relevant.

A Novel Situation

The establishment was a bar and eatery experiencing a brisk business. A wasted session was enjoyed by everyone. Nice food, good libations and surprisingly humorous tales about oral health. Inevitably, the point dawned for excursions to the gents. Those who went, I partially registered, appeared to be absent a considerable while. I didn't contemplate the reason this might have been, but when it became my go, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Taste of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any woman here. I am fully conscious that, for females, being forced to wait to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I observed women waiting in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the inconvenience of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of humiliation about standing there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was profoundly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, watching the opposite gender breeze through the portal while I was obliged to line up dutifully with others with my companions, angling away at whatever we had in our pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Art of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little familiarity. Females, I presume, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, engaging in pleasantries and an engaging comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my circle. The general agreement is that within-the-line communication is confined to the rare exasperated look and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate told me it’s exclusively at the sinks afterwards that chat tends to start up.

If I was a female, I’d waste no time on either niceties or reticence. If I was obliged, over and over, to wait in a public line merely for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like crazy at the utter injustice of it. A useful benchmark for any civilised culture would be balanced access in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for research on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Procession

During my time in my line, I attempted to get some male camaraderie flowing about this novel circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something to the effect of: “Well, this is an disagreeable difference, right boys?”

A fellow grinned, a second looked blank, a third seemed awkward. A further person shook his head as if this was a further manifestation of a failing society, woke madness etc. Otherwise, quiet reigned. A man came out, zipping up. The line moved forward a place. A couple more men joined the rear of it. I sighed.

A Silent Moment

A lady glided out of the next-door restroom, all fresh and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed apologetically at her, attempting to express an understanding of this topsy-turvy situation. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for support, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and only then I might give you the time of day.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She said nothing. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I really wouldn’t blame her.