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Just before Christmas, I had an unusual episode. I believe it did me good. This happened at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dentists, but that’s not relevant. The present crowd were all blokes, which turns out to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The location was a tavern experiencing a roaring trade. A wasted daytime was had by all. Good food, good libations and unexpectedly entertaining tales about teeth. As expected, the point came for visits to the men's room. Those who went, I partially registered, looked to be gone a significant period. I didn't contemplate the reason this was, but when it was my turn, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Taste of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any woman here. I am acutely conscious that, for females, needing to line up to use a convenience is standard practice. Repeatedly have I observed women standing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Beyond the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of indignity about waiting there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the other sex glide through the portal while I was obliged to stand solemnly in line with my mates, looking distractedly at something we had in our trouser pockets and checking our mobile devices.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a whole form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal experience. Women, I imagine, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, sharing polite remarks and an engaging insight or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The general agreement is that queue-based interaction is confined to the occasional exasperated look and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague told me it’s only at the washbasins subsequently that discussion tends to begin.

Were I a female, I’d waste no time on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was obliged, time and again, to wait in a public line merely for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like crazy at the pure unfairness of it. A valuable measure for any advanced society would be balanced access in urination lining-up periods. I’m researching studies on this.

Comradely Banter in the Procession

Returning to my wait, I endeavoured to get some friendly chat going about this novel situation of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something to the effect of: “Well, this makes an unpleasant difference, isn't it lads?”

Someone grinned, someone else looked blank, a third looked sheepish. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was one more symptom of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, quiet ensued. An individual emerged, fastening his trousers. The line advanced a position. Another two men joined the rear of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Moment

A lady glided out of the neighbouring restroom, all fragrant and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, endeavouring to express recognition of this upside-down situation. Her response was: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you jerk. Return when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and only then I might give you the time of day.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She uttered anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I truly would not censure her.