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Shortly before the holidays, I experienced an unusual incident. I think it proved instructive. This happened at a get-together of several mates, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but this isn't important. The assembled group were solely men, which proves to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The venue was a tavern experiencing a brisk business. A wasted session was shared by the group. Good fare, good libations and unexpectedly amusing tales about teeth. As expected, the time dawned for visits to the gents. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, appeared to be gone a considerable while. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it came to my go, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men's. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line recognised.

A Taste of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for sympathy from any female reader here. I am fully aware that, for females, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is the norm. On countless occasions have I observed women waiting in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the annoyance of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a tinge of humiliation about lingering there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was truly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, observing the opposite gender walk straight through the portal while I was obliged to wait patiently in line with my fellow fellas, fiddling at whatever we had in our jackets and checking our mobile devices.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a complete conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant experience. Women, I presume, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, sharing polite remarks and an notable observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some female friends of my circle. The prevailing view is that within-the-line communication is limited to the occasional exasperated look and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate informed me it’s exclusively at the sinks subsequently that chat tends to break out.

Were I a woman, I’d waste no time on either small talk or reticence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to stand in a public line simply for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the pure unfairness of it. A useful measure for any civilised community would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m seeking out research on this.

Male Banter in the Queue

Back in my queue, I attempted to get some male camaraderie going about this new state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and said something to the effect of: “So, this represents an unpleasant difference, isn't it chaps?”

One person chuckled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a other man seemed awkward. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was a further example of a failing society, political correctness etc. For the most part, silence reigned. An individual came out, fastening his trousers. The queue moved forward a position. Another two men entered the back of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Moment

A lady wafted out of the adjacent toilet, all fresh and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I smiled apologetically at her, attempting to communicate an understanding of this topsy-turvy scenario. She remarked: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you blighter. Come back when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and only then I could give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She said a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I truly would not censure her.