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In the run-up to Christmas, I experienced an unusual episode. I feel it proved instructive. This took place at a get-together of some old friends, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but this isn't important. The attending party were solely men, which proves to be significant.

A Novel Situation

The venue was a pub/restaurant experiencing a roaring trade. A forgotten daytime was shared by the group. Nice cuisine, nice drink and surprisingly amusing tales about teeth. Naturally, the moment dawned for visits to the male facilities. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, looked to be gone a considerable while. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it became me next, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line knew.

A Taste of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any woman here. I am fully aware that, for ladies, having to queue to use a public toilet is the norm. On countless occasions have I witnessed women waiting in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Apart from the inconvenience of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a tinge of indignity about lingering there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was decidedly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, watching the opposite gender glide through the portal while I was obliged to stand solemnly in queue with my fellow fellas, angling away at something we had in our trouser pockets and checking our phones.

The Art of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a complete form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal familiarity. Females, I surmise, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, sharing small talk and an interesting comment or two.

On this I’ve asked some women of my circle. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is restricted to the rare eye roll and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague mentioned it’s only at the washbasins subsequently that discussion tends to start up.

If I was a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both niceties or reticence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to wait in a shared procession simply for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the pure injustice of it. A useful measure for any civilised culture would be gender parity in wee waiting times. I’m looking for research on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Line

Returning to my line, I attempted to spark some brotherly banter started about this new circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something along the lines of: “So, this is an irksome variation, isn't it boys?”

A fellow grinned, a second seemed nonplussed, a third individual looked sheepish. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further symptom of a failing society, cultural decline etc. For the most part, quiet prevailed. A man exited, zipping up. The line moved forward a spot. Two more men entered the back of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Exchange

A woman wafted out of the neighbouring facility, all fresh and unhurried. It was all right for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, attempting to express acknowledgement of this reversed situation. She said: “Don't turn to me for support, you bastard. Come back when you’ve done this another hundred times and then I might give you the time.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She uttered a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly wouldn’t blame her.