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Just before the festive season, I encountered an remarkable situation. I believe it proved instructive. This took place at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dentists, but that’s not important. The assembled group were all blokes, which turns out to be key.

A Strange Predicament

The venue was a bar and eatery experiencing a excellent custom. A lost daytime was shared by the group. Fine fare, good drink and surprisingly amusing tales about oral health. As expected, the moment arrived for excursions to the gents. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, appeared to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this might have been, but when it was me next, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the men's restroom. An empty space for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

An Experience of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any woman here. I am fully cognizant that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is standard practice. On countless occasions have I witnessed women standing 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 convenience, there’s a whiff of humiliation about lingering there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was truly bracing to get a taste of it myself, seeing the opposite gender glide through the entrance while I was forced to wait patiently in line with my companions, angling away at anything we had in our pockets and checking our phones.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal experience. Ladies, I imagine, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, sharing polite remarks and an interesting insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some female friends of my circle. The consensus is that queue-based communication is limited to the rare weary glance and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague informed me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations later that discussion tends to break out.

Had I been a female, I’d waste no time on both pleasantries or silence. If I was forced, over and over, to queue in a common queue simply for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter injustice of it. A valuable measure for any modern community would be balanced access in urination lining-up periods. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Procession

During my time in my wait, I attempted to get some brotherly banter started about this novel circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something like: “Well, this makes an unpleasant change, doesn’t it boys?”

A fellow smiled, someone else looked blank, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Another rolled his eyes as if this was a further example of a failing society, woke madness etc. Aside from that, silence prevailed. A man exited, zipping up. The queue moved forward a spot. Two more men entered the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Interaction

A lady emerged out of the next-door restroom, all clean and unhurried. It was all right for some. I grinned apologetically at her, attempting to convey an understanding of this topsy-turvy situation. Her response was: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and then I could give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She said anything. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I truly would not blame her.