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Just before the festive season, I had an remarkable situation. I feel it did me good. This occurred at a get-together of several mates, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but this isn't relevant. The present crowd were solely men, which turns out to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The establishment was a bar and eatery doing a excellent custom. A lost daytime was shared by the group. Fine fare, good drink and unexpectedly entertaining tales about oral health. Naturally, the point came for visits to the gents. Those who departed, I half-noticed, appeared to be gone a significant period. I didn't ponder why this might have been, but when it was me next, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a great long one for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue recognised.

An Experience of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely aware that, for women, having to queue to use a public toilet is the norm. On countless occasions have I seen women waiting in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the inconvenience of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of humiliation about standing there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was truly sobering to get a taste of it myself, watching the other sex glide through the portal while I was forced to line up dutifully with others with my fellow fellas, angling away at anything we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a complete conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little knowledge. Women, I imagine, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging pleasantries and an notable comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some female friends of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that queue-based interaction is restricted to the occasional weary glance and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague told me it’s only at the sinks later that discussion tends to break out.

Had I been a female, I’d waste no time on both niceties or silence. If I was obliged, time and again, to queue in a public line merely for the chance to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the utter inequity of it. A handy benchmark for any civilised society would be equal waiting times in urination waiting times. I’m seeking out data on this.

Male Banter in the Procession

During my time in my wait, I tried to initiate some friendly chat going about this new state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and said something to the effect of: “Well, this makes an irksome variation, isn't it lads?”

Someone smiled, another appeared confused, a other man looked sheepish. Another shook his head as if this was one more example of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, silence ensued. An individual emerged, zipping up. The queue advanced a spot. Two more men entered the end of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Interaction

A lady glided out of the neighbouring facility, all clean and at ease. It was just fine for some. I smiled bashfully at her, attempting to express acknowledgement of this reversed scenario. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for support, you blighter. Return when you’ve done this on a regular basis and only then I might give you the time.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She said a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I really wouldn’t censure her.