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In the run-up to the festive season, I had an remarkable situation. I think it proved instructive. This occurred at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dental professionals, but that’s not important. The attending group were all blokes, which is significant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The location was a tavern doing a roaring trade. A forgotten afternoon was shared by the group. Good fare, fine drink and remarkably entertaining tales about teeth. Inevitably, the point dawned for visits to the gents. Those who departed, I partially registered, looked to be absent a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it came to my turn, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a long queue for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue knew.

A Taste of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect empathy from any female reader here. I am fully conscious that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a convenience is standard practice. How many times have I observed women standing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the inconvenience of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a hint of embarrassment about lingering there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, watching the women breeze through the portal while I was obliged to line up dutifully in line with my mates, angling away at anything we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our phones.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little familiarity. Females, I imagine, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in polite remarks and an engaging comment or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some female friends of my circle. The general agreement is that queue-based interaction is limited to the odd weary glance and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate informed me it’s exclusively at the washbasins afterwards that discussion tends to begin.

Had I been a woman, I’d waste no time on both niceties or reticence. If I was compelled, time and again, to queue in a common queue merely for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the sheer unfairness of it. A useful benchmark for any advanced community would be gender parity in wee queue durations. I’m researching data on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Line

During my time in my queue, I endeavoured to spark some friendly chat flowing about this new circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something like: “Well, this makes an unpleasant change, right chaps?”

A fellow grinned, a second looked blank, a third individual seemed awkward. Another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another symptom of a failing society, political correctness etc. Aside from that, quiet reigned. Someone came out, zipping up. The queue shuffled up a position. A couple more men entered the back of it. I sighed.

A Silent Moment

A woman glided out of the neighbouring toilet, all fresh and relaxed. It was all right for some. I grinned bashfully at her, endeavouring to express an understanding of this reversed scenario. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for support, you bastard. Come back when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and only then I may give you the time.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She uttered anything. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I truly would not censure her.