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In the run-up to Christmas, I encountered an unusual incident. I believe it proved instructive. This occurred at a meeting of several mates, who are, as it happens dentists, but it's not relevant. The present group were solely men, which turns out to be significant.

A Strange Situation

The location was a bar and eatery doing a excellent custom. A forgotten daytime was shared by the group. Good cuisine, fine drink and unexpectedly amusing anecdotes about dentistry. Naturally, the time arrived for trips to the men's room. Those who departed, I half-noticed, appeared to be gone a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this might have been, but when it came to my go, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue knew.

A Taste of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for empathy from any lady here. I am acutely conscious that, for women, having to queue to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I seen women waiting in a row while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

In addition to the annoyance of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about waiting there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was profoundly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, watching the opposite gender breeze through the entrance while I was forced to stand solemnly in line with my fellow fellas, angling away at something we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Art of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a whole conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little experience. Females, I imagine, have learned to be quite proficient at it, exchanging polite remarks and an interesting observation or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some women of my circle. The general agreement is that within-the-line communication is limited to the occasional eye roll and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague informed me it’s merely at the washbasins afterwards that chat tends to break out.

If I was a lady, I’d refrain from on both small talk or silence. If I was obliged, over and over, to wait in a public line merely for the chance to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the pure injustice of it. A valuable benchmark for any advanced community would be equal waiting times in urination queue durations. I’m researching research on this.

Male Banter in the Procession

During my time in my wait, I tried to spark some male camaraderie flowing about this unprecedented situation of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something to the effect of: “Well, this makes an disagreeable change, isn't it boys?”

A fellow smiled, another appeared confused, a third individual seemed awkward. Another shook his head as if this was a further symptom of a failing society, woke madness etc. Otherwise, quiet ensued. A man exited, fastening his trousers. The queue shuffled up a spot. A couple more men entered the end of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Moment

A female glided out of the adjacent toilet, all fragrant and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I beamed bashfully at her, attempting to express acknowledgement of this reversed scenario. She said: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you bastard. Return when you’ve done this a hundred more times and then I may give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say nothing. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I truly wouldn’t blame her.