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Just before Christmas, I had an remarkable situation. I think it proved instructive. This took place at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dentists, but it's not pertinent. The present crowd were exclusively male, which is key.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The venue was a pub/restaurant experiencing a roaring trade. A forgotten session was shared by the group. Nice food, good libations and remarkably amusing anecdotes about oral health. Naturally, the moment arrived for visits to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, seemed to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this might have been, but when it became me next, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue recognised.

A Taste of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect pity from any female reader here. I am acutely cognizant that, for women, being forced to wait to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I seen women standing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the hassle of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a hint of embarrassment about waiting there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly bracing to have a sample of it myself, watching the opposite gender glide through the entrance while I was compelled to wait patiently with others with my companions, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our pockets and checking our phones.

The Art of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant knowledge. Females, I imagine, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, sharing pleasantries and an engaging observation or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some women of my circle. The consensus is that intra-queue dialogue is limited to the rare weary glance and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate informed me it’s only at the washbasins afterwards that chat tends to start up.

If I was a female, I’d refrain from on both pleasantries or quiet. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to wait in a public line only for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the utter injustice of it. A handy metric for any civilised community would be balanced access in urination lining-up periods. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Comradely Banter in the Procession

Back in my queue, I attempted to spark some male camaraderie going about this novel circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something to the effect of: “Well, this makes an disagreeable difference, right chaps?”

Someone chuckled, another looked blank, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further symptom of modern woes, political correctness etc. Aside from that, silence ensued. A man exited, fastening his trousers. The queue shuffled up a place. Two more men entered the rear of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Exchange

A female glided out of the neighbouring toilet, all fragrant and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, trying to communicate acknowledgement of this reversed situation. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for support, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and only then I may give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She said a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly wouldn’t blame her.