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In the run-up to the holidays, I had an unusual incident. I think it proved instructive. This took place at a get-together of several mates, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but that’s not important. The assembled group were all blokes, which turns out to be significant.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The establishment was a bar and eatery doing a excellent custom. A lost afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Good food, good beverages and surprisingly entertaining stories about dentistry. As expected, the point arrived for excursions to the men's room. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, seemed to be absent a significant period. I didn't ponder why this was, but when it became my turn, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering recognised.

An Experience of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect pity from any lady here. I am obviously aware that, for women, having to queue to use a convenience is the norm. Repeatedly have I observed women standing in a row while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Apart from the annoyance of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of humiliation about lingering there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was decidedly sobering to have a sample of it myself, observing the women breeze through the door while I was forced to line up dutifully in line with my companions, fiddling at whatever we had in our pockets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant familiarity. Females, I surmise, have learned to be rather good at it, exchanging pleasantries and an interesting insight or two.

On this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The general agreement is that queue-based dialogue is limited to the odd weary glance and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate told me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations later that conversation tends to start up.

Had I been a lady, I’d refrain from on both small talk or reticence. If I was forced, over and over, to stand in a public line merely for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the pure unfairness of it. A handy metric for any civilised society would be gender parity in wee queue durations. I’m looking for data on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Queue

Back in my wait, I endeavoured to spark some brotherly banter flowing about this novel situation of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and said something like: “So, this is an disagreeable variation, right lads?”

One person chuckled, another appeared confused, a third seemed awkward. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more symptom of modern woes, cultural decline etc. For the most part, stillness prevailed. Someone came out, zipping up. The group advanced a position. Another two men took a place at the end of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Interaction

A woman glided out of the neighbouring facility, all fragrant and at ease. It was all right for some. I beamed apologetically at her, trying to convey recognition of this reversed state of affairs. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve done this a hundred more times and then I may give you the time.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She didn’t say anything. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I honestly could not blame her.