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In the run-up to the holidays, I had an unusual episode. I believe it was beneficial for me. This happened at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but this isn't relevant. The assembled crowd were all blokes, which is key.

A Strange Predicament

The establishment was a bar and eatery experiencing a roaring trade. A wasted session was shared by the group. Good fare, nice beverages and unexpectedly amusing anecdotes about oral health. Inevitably, the moment dawned for excursions to the gents. Those who went, I partially registered, appeared to be gone a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it was my go, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue recognised.

An Experience of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any lady here. I am obviously aware that, for women, having to queue to use a convenience is the norm. On countless occasions have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a tinge of humiliation about standing there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was truly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, observing the women walk straight through the door while I was compelled to line up dutifully in queue with my mates, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Genre of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a complete conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little knowledge. Females, I imagine, have developed skills to be rather good at it, sharing small talk and an engaging comment or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some women of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that within-the-line interaction is limited to the rare weary glance and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate informed me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations afterwards that chat tends to break out.

If I was a female, I’d waste no time on both small talk or silence. If I was compelled, time and again, to queue in a common queue merely for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the utter inequity of it. A useful benchmark for any advanced society would be balanced access in toilet lining-up periods. I’m looking for research on this.

Male Banter in the Procession

Returning to my queue, I attempted to get some male camaraderie flowing about this novel circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something to the effect of: “Well, this represents an irksome difference, doesn’t it lads?”

A fellow smiled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third looked sheepish. A further person shook his head as if this was one more symptom of a failing society, political correctness etc. Otherwise, quiet prevailed. Someone emerged, zipping up. The queue advanced a position. A couple more men entered the rear of it. I sighed.

A Silent Exchange

A female wafted out of the adjacent toilet, all fragrant and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled bashfully at her, endeavouring to express an understanding of this topsy-turvy scenario. Her response was: “Don't come to me for support, you blighter. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and then I might give you the time.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She uttered nothing. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly could not censure her.