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Just before Christmas, I encountered an remarkable situation. I think it did me good. This happened at a gathering of several mates, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but that’s not relevant. The present party were solely men, which is significant.

A Novel Scenario

The venue was a bar and eatery experiencing a roaring trade. A forgotten afternoon was shared by the group. Nice food, fine beverages and unexpectedly entertaining stories about teeth. Inevitably, the point came for excursions to the male facilities. Those who went, I half-noticed, looked to be gone a long time. I didn’t dwell on why this might have been, but when it came to me next, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue knew.

A Sample of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect empathy from any female reader here. I am obviously cognizant that, for females, being forced to wait to use a convenience is the norm. Repeatedly have I seen women queuing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Apart from the annoyance of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about waiting there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly sobering to have a sample of it myself, seeing the women walk straight through the entrance while I was obliged to stand solemnly with others with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our phones.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant experience. Women, I presume, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, sharing small talk and an notable comment or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The general agreement is that queue-based communication is restricted to the odd weary glance and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague mentioned it’s exclusively at the sinks subsequently that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a woman, I’d refrain from on both niceties or quiet. If I was forced, time and again, to stand in a common queue only for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like crazy at the sheer inequity of it. A valuable metric for any advanced society would be balanced access in wee lining-up periods. I’m seeking out research on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Procession

Back in my line, I attempted to spark some brotherly banter started about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something like: “Well, this makes an unpleasant variation, doesn’t it chaps?”

Someone smiled, another looked blank, a other man seemed awkward. Yet another shook his head as if this was one more manifestation of modern woes, woke madness etc. Otherwise, quiet reigned. Someone emerged, zipping up. The group moved forward a position. A couple more men joined the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Exchange

A woman wafted out of the neighbouring facility, all fresh and unhurried. It was all right for some. I grinned apologetically at her, endeavouring to communicate an understanding of this upside-down situation. She said: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you blighter. Return when you’ve done this another hundred times and then I could give you the time.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She said nothing. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I truly would not censure her.