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In the run-up to Christmas, I encountered an remarkable situation. I feel it proved instructive. This happened at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dental professionals, but this isn't pertinent. The attending group were all blokes, which proves to be key.

A Novel Situation

The venue was a pub/restaurant experiencing a roaring trade. A forgotten daytime was shared by the group. Nice fare, nice drink and remarkably entertaining stories about oral health. As expected, the time came for excursions to the male facilities. Those who went, I partially registered, looked to be absent a long time. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it came to me next, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue recognised.

An Experience of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any woman here. I am acutely cognizant that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a restroom is the norm. Repeatedly have I observed women standing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Apart from the hassle of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a tinge of indignity about lingering there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly bracing to have a sample of it myself, observing the other sex glide through the door while I was compelled to stand solemnly in queue with my companions, looking distractedly at something we had in our pockets and consulting our phones.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a entire conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant knowledge. Females, I imagine, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in polite remarks and an engaging comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some female friends of my circle. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is confined to the rare eye roll and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate informed me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations subsequently that conversation tends to begin.

Were I a female, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or quiet. If I was obliged, time and again, to wait in a shared procession simply for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter unfairness of it. A valuable benchmark for any advanced culture would be equal waiting times in toilet lining-up periods. I’m researching research on this.

Male Interaction in the Procession

Returning to my queue, I attempted to initiate some friendly chat going about this novel circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something along the lines of: “So, this represents an disagreeable variation, isn't it boys?”

One person grinned, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third looked sheepish. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more symptom of modern woes, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, quiet reigned. Someone emerged, zipping up. The line shuffled up a position. A couple more men entered the end of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Exchange

A female glided out of the neighbouring facility, all fresh and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I beamed bashfully at her, trying to express an understanding of this topsy-turvy scenario. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for support, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve done this a hundred more times and at that point I could give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She didn’t say anything. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I honestly would not fault her.