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Just before the festive season, I encountered an extraordinary episode. I feel it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a gathering of some old friends, who are, as it happens dentists, but this isn't relevant. The assembled crowd were solely men, which proves to be significant.

A Novel Situation

The location was a bar and eatery experiencing a brisk business. A wasted session was enjoyed by everyone. Good fare, good libations and unexpectedly humorous tales about dentistry. Inevitably, the moment came for excursions to the gents. Those who departed, I partially registered, seemed to be absent a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it was my turn, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a long queue for the men's restroom. No queue at all 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 knew.

An Experience of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any female reader here. I am acutely conscious that, for females, needing to line up to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I observed women standing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the hassle of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a hint of embarrassment about lingering there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was profoundly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, watching the opposite gender breeze through the door while I was obliged to wait patiently in line with my mates, angling away at anything we had in our jackets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a whole conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal experience. Women, I presume, have developed skills to be rather good at it, sharing polite remarks and an notable comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my circle. The prevailing view is that intra-queue communication is confined to the rare eye roll and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague informed me it’s merely at the sinks later that discussion tends to break out.

Were I a lady, I’d waste no time on either niceties or reticence. If I was compelled, over and over, to wait in a common queue merely for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the sheer injustice of it. A handy benchmark for any civilised culture would be gender parity in wee waiting times. I’m seeking out research on this.

Comradely Banter in the Queue

Returning to my queue, I tried to spark some brotherly banter flowing about this new situation of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and said something like: “Ah, this makes an unpleasant change, isn't it boys?”

One person grinned, another looked blank, a third appeared embarrassed. A further person shook his head as if this was a further symptom of a failing society, political correctness etc. For the most part, quiet reigned. Someone emerged, adjusting his clothing. The queue moved forward a position. Two more men took a place at the end of it. I sighed.

A Silent Moment

A woman emerged out of the next-door restroom, all clean and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I smiled bashfully at her, endeavouring to convey acknowledgement of this reversed state of affairs. She said: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you bastard. Return when you’ve done this on a regular basis and then I may give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She uttered anything. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly would not censure her.