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Just before Christmas, I experienced an unusual episode. I think it did me good. This occurred at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be tooth doctors, but that’s not important. The assembled party were exclusively male, which proves to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The venue was a pub/restaurant experiencing a roaring trade. A forgotten daytime was had by all. Good fare, nice beverages and remarkably entertaining anecdotes about oral health. Naturally, the moment dawned for excursions to the gents. Those who went, I partially registered, appeared to be away a significant period. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it came to my turn, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Taste of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect pity from any woman here. I am fully cognizant that, for women, being forced to wait to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I observed women waiting in a row while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

In addition to the annoyance of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of indignity about waiting there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was profoundly sobering to have a sample of it myself, observing the opposite gender glide through the door while I was compelled to line up dutifully with others with my mates, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our pockets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a entire conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little knowledge. Women, I surmise, have learned to be quite proficient at it, engaging in small talk and an notable comment or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my circle. The general agreement is that intra-queue communication is confined to the rare eye roll and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate informed me it’s exclusively at the sinks afterwards that chat tends to begin.

Had I been a female, I’d waste no time on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was forced, over and over, to queue in a public line only for the chance to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the utter unfairness of it. A valuable measure for any advanced culture would be gender parity in toilet lining-up periods. I’m looking for studies on this.

Male Banter in the Procession

During my time in my wait, I tried to spark some male camaraderie flowing about this new situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something along the lines of: “So, this makes an unpleasant difference, doesn’t it lads?”

Someone grinned, another looked blank, a other man seemed awkward. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another symptom of a failing society, woke madness etc. Otherwise, quiet prevailed. An individual exited, zipping up. The group shuffled up a spot. Two more men entered the back of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Interaction

A woman glided out of the next-door facility, all fresh and at ease. It was all right for some. I smiled apologetically at her, endeavouring to convey an understanding of this topsy-turvy scenario. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for support, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve endured this another hundred times and at that point I could give you the time.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She uttered anything. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I really could not blame her.