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Just before the holidays, I encountered an unusual episode. I feel it did me good. This occurred at a get-together of several mates, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but that’s not pertinent. The assembled party were solely men, which proves to be key.

A Novel Predicament

The venue was a pub/restaurant doing a brisk business. A wasted daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Nice food, good beverages and remarkably humorous stories about oral health. Inevitably, the point came for trips to the male facilities. Those who went, I vaguely observed, appeared to be absent a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on why this was, but when it was my go, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

An Experience of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for pity from any female reader here. I am fully conscious that, for women, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is standard practice. On countless occasions have I observed women queuing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Apart from the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of indignity about standing there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was truly sobering to have a sample of it myself, observing the opposite gender walk straight through the door while I was compelled to wait patiently with others with my companions, fiddling at anything we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Practice of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a complete conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant knowledge. Women, I surmise, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, sharing polite remarks and an notable comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some female friends of my circle. The general agreement is that queue-based communication is restricted to the rare weary glance and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate mentioned it’s only at the washbasins afterwards that discussion tends to begin.

Had I been a lady, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or silence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to wait in a public line only for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the sheer inequity of it. A valuable metric for any advanced culture would be gender parity in toilet lining-up periods. I’m looking for research on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Queue

Returning to my queue, I tried to get some male camaraderie going about this new state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and said something along the lines of: “Well, this represents an irksome difference, doesn’t it chaps?”

A fellow smiled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a other man seemed awkward. A further person shook his head as if this was yet another example of a failing society, cultural decline etc. For the most part, stillness prevailed. Someone came out, adjusting his clothing. The line advanced a spot. A couple more men joined the end of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Interaction

A lady emerged out of the neighbouring restroom, all clean and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, trying to convey acknowledgement of this upside-down state of affairs. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve done this another hundred times and then I could give you the time of day.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She didn’t say a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly would not blame her.