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In the run-up to the festive season, I experienced an extraordinary episode. I believe it proved instructive. This took place at a meeting of some old friends, who are incidentally dentists, but it's not relevant. The attending group were all blokes, which proves to be key.

A Novel Situation

The location was a bar and eatery experiencing a roaring trade. A wasted daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Nice fare, fine drink and remarkably entertaining tales about oral health. As expected, the time dawned for excursions to the gents. Those who departed, I partially registered, appeared to be absent a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this might have been, but when it was me next, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue knew.

An Experience of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for pity from any woman here. I am fully aware that, for women, being forced to wait to use a convenience is standard practice. How many times have I seen women waiting in a row while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Apart from the annoyance of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a hint of humiliation about standing there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was decidedly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, seeing the other sex walk straight through the entrance while I was compelled to line up dutifully in queue with my companions, looking distractedly at anything we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Genre of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a entire conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant experience. Women, I presume, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, exchanging polite remarks and an engaging comment or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The general agreement is that queue-based interaction is restricted to the occasional weary glance and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate informed me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations afterwards that discussion tends to begin.

Were I a female, I’d refrain from on either small talk or reticence. If I was compelled, over and over, to wait in a common queue simply for the chance to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the sheer injustice of it. A handy benchmark for any advanced community would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m researching studies on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Line

During my time in my wait, I tried to initiate some friendly chat flowing about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something along the lines of: “Well, this is an irksome difference, isn't it boys?”

A fellow smiled, someone else looked blank, a third seemed awkward. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further symptom of modern woes, woke madness etc. For the most part, quiet ensued. A man came out, fastening his trousers. The queue moved forward a place. Two more men entered the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Moment

A female wafted out of the next-door toilet, all fragrant and at ease. It was just fine for some. I beamed bashfully at her, attempting to express acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy situation. She remarked: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you bastard. Return when you’ve endured this another hundred times and then I might give you the time of day.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She said nothing. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I truly could not fault her.