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In the run-up to the holidays, I experienced an unusual situation. I believe it was beneficial for me. This took place at a gathering of some old friends, who are, as it happens dentists, but that’s not pertinent. The assembled group were solely men, which proves to be key.

A Novel Scenario

The establishment was a tavern enjoying a roaring trade. A wasted daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Good fare, good libations and unexpectedly entertaining anecdotes about oral health. As expected, the point came for trips to the gents. Those who departed, I half-noticed, appeared to be gone a significant period. I didn't contemplate why this could be, but when it came to my go, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line were accustomed to.

An Experience of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for pity from any lady here. I am acutely cognizant that, for women, having to queue to use a convenience is standard practice. Repeatedly have I witnessed women standing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

In addition to the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about standing there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was profoundly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the women breeze through the door while I was forced to wait patiently with others with my companions, fiddling at anything we had in our pockets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little knowledge. Women, I imagine, have learned to be quite proficient at it, engaging in polite remarks and an engaging observation or two.

On this I’ve polled some women of my circle. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is restricted to the odd eye roll and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate informed me it’s merely at the washbasins afterwards that chat tends to begin.

Were I a lady, I’d refrain from on both small talk or quiet. If I was obliged, time and again, to queue in a shared procession merely for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the utter inequity of it. A valuable benchmark for any modern society would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m researching studies on this.

Male Interaction in the Line

Back in my line, I tried to get some male camaraderie flowing about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and said something like: “So, this makes an irksome variation, isn't it chaps?”

One person chuckled, a second seemed nonplussed, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Another shook his head as if this was a further symptom of modern woes, woke madness etc. For the most part, quiet reigned. Someone emerged, adjusting his clothing. The group moved forward a spot. A couple more men entered the end of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Interaction

A female emerged out of the neighbouring facility, all fragrant and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I grinned apologetically at her, attempting to express acknowledgement of this upside-down scenario. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve endured this another hundred times and then I could give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She uttered nothing. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I truly wouldn’t fault her.