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In the run-up to Christmas, I experienced an extraordinary episode. I feel it did me good. This happened at a gathering of several mates, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but it's not relevant. The assembled group were exclusively male, which is significant.

A Strange Scenario

The venue was a bar and eatery doing a excellent custom. A forgotten daytime was had by all. Good food, nice drink and surprisingly humorous anecdotes about dentistry. As expected, the moment dawned for trips to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, looked to be gone a significant period. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it was my turn, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line recognised.

A Taste of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for sympathy from any woman here. I am fully aware that, for females, needing to line up to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I seen women waiting in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Beyond the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of indignity about standing there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was decidedly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, observing the opposite gender glide through the entrance while I was compelled to line up dutifully with others with my companions, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and checking our handsets.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a whole conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little experience. Ladies, I presume, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, exchanging polite remarks and an interesting comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some women of my knowledge. The general agreement is that queue-based interaction is restricted to the rare weary glance and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate informed me it’s exclusively at the sinks afterwards that discussion tends to begin.

Were I a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or silence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to stand in a shared procession merely for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the utter unfairness of it. A useful benchmark for any civilised culture would be equal waiting times in urination queue durations. I’m researching studies on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Procession

Returning to my line, I endeavoured to spark some friendly chat going about this new state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something along the lines of: “Ah, this is an unpleasant difference, isn't it chaps?”

A fellow smiled, a second seemed nonplussed, a third individual looked sheepish. Another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another manifestation of modern woes, woke madness etc. For the most part, quiet prevailed. A man came out, zipping up. The group advanced a spot. Two more men joined the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Interaction

A woman wafted out of the next-door restroom, all clean and at ease. It was just fine for some. I smiled apologetically at her, trying to convey recognition of this upside-down state of affairs. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for support, you jerk. Return when you’ve done this another hundred times and at that point I might give you the time of day.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She said anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I really would not censure her.