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Just before Christmas, I encountered an extraordinary episode. I believe it proved instructive. This occurred at a gathering of some old friends, who happen to be dental professionals, but that’s not important. The present group were solely men, which is significant.

A Strange Predicament

The establishment was a pub/restaurant doing a excellent custom. A forgotten afternoon was shared by the group. Good cuisine, fine drink and surprisingly humorous tales about dentistry. Naturally, the point came for trips to the gents. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, appeared to be gone a long time. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it came to me next, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line knew.

A Taste of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any female reader here. I am fully aware that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I witnessed women standing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

In addition to the inconvenience of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of humiliation about lingering there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was decidedly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the other sex walk straight through the portal while I was compelled to stand solemnly in queue with my mates, angling away at something we had in our pockets and checking our phones.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant knowledge. Ladies, I surmise, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging pleasantries and an engaging comment or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some women of my knowledge. The general agreement is that intra-queue communication is restricted to the odd exasperated look and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague informed me it’s merely at the washbasins afterwards that chat tends to break out.

If I was a female, I’d waste no time on either small talk or quiet. If I was forced, repeatedly, to queue in a public line simply for the chance to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the pure unfairness of it. A handy benchmark for any modern society would be balanced access in wee queue durations. I’m looking for research on this.

Male Interaction in the Procession

During my time in my wait, I tried to spark some friendly chat going about this novel circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something like: “Well, this is an unpleasant variation, isn't it boys?”

Someone chuckled, someone else looked blank, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more manifestation of a failing society, woke madness etc. Otherwise, quiet reigned. A man came out, adjusting his clothing. The queue shuffled up a spot. Another two men joined the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Moment

A lady glided out of the neighbouring restroom, all fresh and relaxed. It was all right for some. I beamed bashfully at her, attempting to communicate recognition of this upside-down state of affairs. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for support, you blighter. Come back when you’ve done this another hundred times and only then I may give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She said a word. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I honestly wouldn’t fault her.