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In the run-up to the holidays, I encountered an extraordinary situation. I think it did me good. This happened at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dentists, but it's not relevant. The attending group were all blokes, which turns out to be key.

A Novel Situation

The establishment was a bar and eatery doing a brisk business. A forgotten afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Fine cuisine, nice drink and unexpectedly humorous stories about dentistry. As expected, the point arrived for trips to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, appeared to be away a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it was my turn, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue knew.

An Experience of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely conscious that, for females, having to queue to use a public toilet is standard practice. How many times have I observed women waiting in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of indignity about lingering there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was profoundly sobering to get a taste of it myself, watching the other sex breeze through the door while I was forced to line up dutifully in queue with my companions, fiddling at something we had in our jackets and consulting our phones.

The Art of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a entire form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal knowledge. Females, I imagine, have learned to be quite proficient at it, engaging in small talk and an interesting insight or two.

On this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The general agreement is that within-the-line interaction is confined to the occasional weary glance and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague told me it’s exclusively at the sinks later that conversation tends to start up.

If I was a female, I’d waste no time on either small talk or quiet. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to wait in a public line merely for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the sheer unfairness of it. A handy benchmark for any advanced society would be equal waiting times in toilet lining-up periods. I’m looking for research on this.

Comradely Banter in the Queue

Returning to my wait, I attempted to get some male camaraderie going about this new situation of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something to the effect of: “Well, this makes an disagreeable variation, isn't it chaps?”

Someone grinned, someone else looked blank, a other man looked sheepish. A further person shook his head as if this was one more manifestation of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, silence ensued. A man exited, fastening his trousers. The group moved forward a spot. Another two men joined the back of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Moment

A woman emerged out of the next-door facility, all fragrant and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, trying to express recognition of this reversed situation. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for support, you bastard. Come back when you’ve done this on a regular basis and only then I may give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She said anything. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I truly wouldn’t fault her.