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Shortly before the festive season, I experienced an extraordinary situation. I believe it did me good. This occurred at a get-together of several mates, who happen to be dentists, but this isn't pertinent. The attending crowd were exclusively male, which proves to be significant.

A Strange Situation

The establishment was a tavern doing a excellent custom. A lost afternoon was had by all. Nice fare, good libations and remarkably humorous stories about teeth. Inevitably, the time dawned for trips to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, appeared to be gone a long time. I didn't contemplate why this might have been, but when it was me next, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue recognised.

An Experience of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for empathy from any woman here. I am obviously cognizant that, for women, being forced to wait to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I witnessed women waiting in a row while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

In addition to the annoyance of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of humiliation about waiting there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was profoundly bracing to have a sample of it myself, watching the opposite gender glide through the door while I was forced to line up dutifully with others with my mates, angling away at whatever we had in our jackets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a whole form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant familiarity. Females, I presume, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in polite remarks and an interesting observation or two.

On this I’ve polled some female friends of my circle. The general agreement is that queue-based interaction is limited to the odd eye roll and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague mentioned it’s merely at the hand-washing stations later that conversation tends to begin.

If I was a female, I’d waste no time on both pleasantries or reticence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to stand in a common queue merely for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the utter inequity of it. A handy measure for any civilised culture would be balanced access in toilet queue durations. I’m seeking out data on this.

Male Banter in the Queue

Back in my line, I attempted to initiate some brotherly banter going about this novel situation of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something like: “Ah, this is an disagreeable change, isn't it lads?”

A fellow chuckled, a second appeared confused, a other man seemed awkward. Yet another shook his head as if this was yet another manifestation of modern woes, woke madness etc. Aside from that, quiet reigned. A man exited, fastening his trousers. The line moved forward a spot. A couple more men took a place at the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Exchange

A female emerged out of the adjacent toilet, all fragrant and relaxed. It was all right for some. I beamed apologetically at her, attempting to express an understanding of this topsy-turvy situation. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for support, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and at that point I could give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She uttered anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I really would not censure her.