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Shortly before the festive season, I experienced an extraordinary episode. I feel it did me good. This took place at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dentists, but it's not pertinent. The attending group were exclusively male, which is significant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The establishment was a bar and eatery experiencing a brisk business. A forgotten daytime was had by all. Good food, fine libations and unexpectedly humorous anecdotes about oral health. Naturally, the point dawned for excursions to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, looked to be gone a long time. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it came to my go, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a great long one 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 Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any female reader here. I am fully aware that, for women, being forced to wait to use a convenience is the norm. Repeatedly have I observed women standing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the annoyance of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of indignity about lingering there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was profoundly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, watching the opposite gender breeze through the portal while I was forced to wait patiently with others with my mates, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a whole form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal experience. Females, I presume, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, engaging in pleasantries and an engaging comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some female friends of my circle. The general agreement is that queue-based interaction is confined to the odd exasperated look and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague mentioned it’s only at the washbasins subsequently that chat tends to begin.

Had I been a female, I’d refrain from on both pleasantries or reticence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to wait in a public line merely for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like crazy at the sheer inequity of it. A useful benchmark for any civilised community would be equal waiting times in toilet lining-up periods. I’m researching studies on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Line

Returning to my wait, I endeavoured to initiate some brotherly banter started about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something like: “Well, this makes an irksome difference, right boys?”

Someone chuckled, someone else appeared confused, a third appeared embarrassed. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was one more symptom of modern woes, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, silence ensued. A man exited, fastening his trousers. The line shuffled up a position. Another two men joined the end of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Moment

A female glided out of the adjacent facility, all clean and at ease. It was all right for some. I beamed bashfully at her, trying to convey recognition of this reversed situation. She remarked: “Don't come to me for support, you jerk. Return when you’ve done this a hundred more times and only then I could give you the time of day.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She uttered anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I honestly could not censure her.