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Just before the holidays, I encountered an unusual incident. I feel it proved instructive. This took place at a meeting of several mates, who are incidentally dental professionals, but it's not pertinent. The assembled group were solely men, which proves to be key.

A Strange Predicament

The establishment was a bar and eatery doing a excellent custom. A forgotten afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Fine food, nice libations and remarkably humorous tales about dentistry. As expected, the point dawned for visits to the gents. Those who went, I half-noticed, appeared to be away a significant period. I didn't ponder why this might have been, but when it became my go, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a great long one for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue knew.

An Experience of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any female reader here. I am fully cognizant that, for women, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is the norm. Repeatedly have I witnessed women queuing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Beyond the hassle of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of humiliation about waiting there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was decidedly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, watching the opposite gender walk straight through the portal while I was compelled to wait patiently with others with my mates, fiddling at whatever we had in our pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Genre of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little experience. Ladies, I surmise, have become adept to be rather good at it, sharing polite remarks and an engaging observation or two.

On this I’ve asked some women of my circle. The general agreement is that queue-based communication is confined to the rare eye roll and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague informed me it’s merely at the washbasins later that chat tends to start up.

Had I been a woman, I’d refrain from on either niceties or quiet. If I was forced, over and over, to stand in a common queue merely for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the pure unfairness of it. A valuable measure for any modern society would be gender parity in toilet waiting times. I’m looking for studies on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Queue

Returning to my line, I attempted to spark some brotherly banter flowing about this novel circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something to the effect of: “Ah, this makes an disagreeable change, doesn’t it boys?”

One person smiled, another seemed nonplussed, a third looked sheepish. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another example of a failing society, political correctness etc. Aside from that, silence ensued. An individual exited, fastening his trousers. The queue moved forward a position. Another two men joined the back of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Exchange

A woman glided out of the adjacent restroom, all clean and unhurried. It was all right for some. I grinned bashfully at her, endeavouring to express recognition of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She remarked: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and then I might give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She uttered a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I honestly would not blame her.