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Just before the festive season, I had an unusual episode. I believe it proved instructive. This occurred at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dentists, but it's not important. The present group were exclusively male, which is relevant.

A Novel Scenario

The location was a bar and eatery doing a brisk business. A forgotten afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Fine cuisine, good drink and surprisingly amusing anecdotes about teeth. Naturally, the moment dawned for trips to the male facilities. Those who departed, I partially registered, looked to be gone a considerable while. I didn't ponder why this was, but when it became my turn, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line recognised.

An Experience of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any lady here. I am acutely cognizant that, for females, needing to line up to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I witnessed women queuing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Beyond the inconvenience of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a hint of embarrassment about waiting there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was truly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, watching the opposite gender glide through the portal while I was compelled to line up dutifully in line with my companions, fiddling at something we had in our trouser pockets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a complete form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little experience. Females, I imagine, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in polite remarks and an notable observation or two.

On this I’ve consulted some women of my acquaintance. The consensus is that intra-queue interaction is limited to the occasional eye roll and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate told me it’s merely at the washbasins afterwards that conversation tends to break out.

If I was a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or reticence. If I was compelled, over and over, to wait in a common queue merely for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the pure inequity of it. A handy measure for any modern culture would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for research on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Queue

During my time in my wait, I endeavoured to get some brotherly banter going about this new state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something like: “Well, this makes an irksome change, doesn’t it chaps?”

Someone smiled, someone else looked blank, a other man appeared embarrassed. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further manifestation of a failing society, cultural decline etc. For the most part, stillness ensued. A man exited, adjusting his clothing. The line advanced a place. Another two men joined the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Interaction

A female wafted out of the adjacent facility, all fragrant and unhurried. It was all right for some. I beamed bashfully at her, trying to convey an understanding of this upside-down scenario. She said: “Don't come to me for support, you bastard. Return when you’ve endured this another hundred times and then I may give you the time.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She uttered anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I really could not censure her.