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Shortly before the holidays, I encountered an remarkable episode. I think it did me good. This took place at a meeting of several mates, who are, as it happens dentists, but it's not pertinent. The attending crowd were solely men, which turns out to be relevant.

A Novel Situation

The location was a bar and eatery doing a roaring trade. A wasted session was had by all. Fine food, fine beverages and surprisingly humorous tales about dentistry. Inevitably, the point dawned for excursions to the gents. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, appeared to be away a significant period. I didn't ponder why this was, but when it came to my turn, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line recognised.

A Taste of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for empathy from any lady here. I am fully cognizant that, for females, needing to line up to use a public toilet is the norm. Repeatedly have I witnessed women standing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Apart from the annoyance of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of humiliation about lingering there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was profoundly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, watching the other sex walk straight through the door while I was forced to stand solemnly in queue with my mates, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our pockets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a complete conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant familiarity. Women, I imagine, have learned to be rather good at it, sharing polite remarks and an notable comment or two.

On this I’ve consulted some women of my circle. The general agreement is that intra-queue dialogue is restricted to the occasional weary glance and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate informed me it’s only at the sinks subsequently that conversation tends to break out.

Were I a female, I’d not spend a moment on both pleasantries or quiet. If I was obliged, over and over, to queue in a public line only for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the sheer injustice of it. A useful measure for any advanced community would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m researching studies on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Queue

Returning to my line, I attempted to spark some male camaraderie started about this new circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something like: “Ah, this makes an unpleasant variation, doesn’t it boys?”

Someone smiled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third individual appeared embarrassed. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another example of modern woes, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, quiet prevailed. Someone emerged, adjusting his clothing. The queue moved forward a position. Two more men entered the rear of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Interaction

A lady glided out of the next-door facility, all fragrant and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I beamed bashfully at her, attempting to convey an understanding of this reversed scenario. She said: “Don’t look to me for support, you jerk. Return when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and then I could give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She said anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I really could not fault her.