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Shortly before Christmas, I had an unusual episode. I feel it did me good. This happened at a get-together of several mates, who happen to be tooth doctors, but it's not pertinent. The attending group were exclusively male, which proves to be relevant.

A Novel Situation

The venue was a pub/restaurant doing a excellent custom. A wasted daytime was had by all. Nice cuisine, nice beverages and unexpectedly entertaining stories about dentistry. Naturally, the point came for excursions to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, seemed to be absent a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on the reason this might have been, but when it came to me next, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men's. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering knew.

An Experience of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for sympathy from any female reader here. I am fully aware that, for women, having to queue to use a public toilet is standard practice. How many times have I seen women queuing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

In addition to the hassle of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a hint of indignity about lingering there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was profoundly bracing to have a sample of it myself, observing the other sex breeze through the entrance while I was forced to wait patiently in queue with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our pockets and checking our phones.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a entire conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal familiarity. Women, I surmise, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in small talk and an interesting comment or two.

On this I’ve asked some female friends of my circle. The prevailing view is that within-the-line dialogue is confined to the rare exasperated look and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate informed me it’s only at the hand-washing stations subsequently that conversation tends to begin.

If I was a female, I’d waste no time on both niceties or silence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to stand in a shared procession merely for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the sheer injustice of it. A useful metric for any advanced culture would be gender parity in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for studies on this.

Comradely Chat in the Line

Returning to my wait, I endeavoured to spark some male camaraderie started about this novel situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something to the effect of: “So, this makes an unpleasant variation, isn't it boys?”

A fellow grinned, someone else appeared confused, a third individual looked sheepish. Another rolled his eyes as if this was a further manifestation of a failing society, political correctness etc. Otherwise, quiet reigned. A man emerged, zipping up. The group moved forward a position. Two more men joined the end of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Exchange

A female wafted out of the next-door facility, all fresh and at ease. It was all right for some. I grinned apologetically at her, attempting to convey an understanding of this reversed scenario. Her response was: “Don't come to me for support, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve done this another hundred times and only then I may give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She didn’t say a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I truly could not fault her.