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Shortly before the festive season, I had an remarkable episode. I believe it did me good. This happened at a gathering of several mates, who are incidentally dental professionals, but this isn't important. The present group were exclusively male, which proves to be key.

A Strange Situation

The establishment was a pub/restaurant enjoying a brisk business. A forgotten afternoon was shared by the group. Good fare, nice beverages and surprisingly amusing anecdotes about dentistry. Inevitably, the time arrived for trips to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, appeared to be absent a considerable while. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it became my turn, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a great long one for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering knew.

A Sample of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any lady here. I am fully conscious that, for ladies, having to queue to use a convenience is standard practice. On countless occasions have I observed women queuing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Beyond the annoyance of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about lingering there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was profoundly bracing to get a taste of it myself, watching the opposite gender walk straight through the door while I was forced to wait patiently in queue with my companions, looking distractedly at anything we had in our jackets and checking our mobile devices.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant familiarity. Females, I presume, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging pleasantries and an engaging observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some female friends of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that within-the-line communication is limited to the occasional weary glance and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate informed me it’s merely at the washbasins later that discussion tends to break out.

Had I been a lady, I’d refrain from on either small talk or quiet. If I was forced, time and again, to wait in a shared procession merely for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the sheer injustice of it. A useful benchmark for any advanced culture would be gender parity in wee waiting times. I’m looking for research on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Queue

Back in my line, I attempted to spark some brotherly banter flowing about this novel situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something like: “Well, this represents an irksome change, isn't it boys?”

Someone chuckled, a second seemed nonplussed, a other man looked sheepish. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another example of a failing society, political correctness etc. For the most part, stillness reigned. Someone exited, adjusting his clothing. The line advanced a spot. A couple more men entered the end of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Interaction

A lady emerged out of the adjacent toilet, all clean and at ease. It was just fine for some. I beamed apologetically at her, trying to communicate acknowledgement of this upside-down scenario. She said: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you jerk. Come back when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and at that point I might give you the time.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She uttered nothing. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly could not fault her.