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Just before Christmas, I had an unusual situation. I feel it was beneficial for me. This took place at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dentists, but that’s not pertinent. The assembled crowd were all blokes, which turns out to be significant.

A Novel Predicament

The venue was a tavern experiencing a roaring trade. A wasted afternoon was shared by the group. Fine fare, nice libations and surprisingly amusing stories about teeth. As expected, the point dawned for visits to the men's room. Those who went, I half-noticed, seemed to be gone a significant period. I didn't ponder the reason this might have been, but when it became my turn, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Taste of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any female reader here. I am fully cognizant that, for ladies, having to queue to use a public toilet is standard practice. Repeatedly have I seen women waiting in a row while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the hassle of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about standing there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, observing the other sex walk straight through the door while I was obliged to wait patiently in queue with my fellow fellas, angling away at something we had in our jackets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a entire conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant familiarity. Females, I surmise, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, sharing small talk and an engaging observation or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The consensus is that within-the-line dialogue is limited to the rare exasperated look and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague informed me it’s only at the sinks afterwards that conversation tends to begin.

Were I a lady, I’d refrain from on either niceties or silence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to wait in a common queue simply for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the utter inequity of it. A useful benchmark for any modern society would be equal waiting times in urination lining-up periods. I’m seeking out data on this.

Male Banter in the Procession

During my time in my line, I attempted to get some friendly chat going about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something to the effect of: “Ah, this makes an unpleasant difference, doesn’t it lads?”

A fellow smiled, a second looked blank, a third individual seemed awkward. Another shook his head as if this was yet another symptom of modern woes, political correctness etc. For the most part, stillness ensued. Someone came out, zipping up. The line moved forward a spot. A couple more men took a place at the end of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Exchange

A female emerged out of the next-door restroom, all fresh and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, endeavouring to communicate acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She said: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and then I could give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She uttered anything. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I honestly wouldn’t blame her.