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Shortly before Christmas, I had an remarkable incident. I believe it was beneficial for me. This took place at a meeting of some old friends, who are, as it happens dentists, but it's not important. The attending group were all blokes, which turns out to be significant.

A Strange Predicament

The venue was a tavern experiencing a roaring trade. A wasted session was had by all. Fine fare, good beverages and surprisingly humorous anecdotes about dentistry. Naturally, the time came for visits to the gents. Those who went, I half-noticed, seemed to be away a considerable while. I didn't contemplate the reason this might have been, but when it became me next, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. An empty space for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering knew.

An Experience of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any female reader here. I am fully conscious that, for ladies, having to queue to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I observed women queuing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Apart from the inconvenience of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a hint of humiliation about waiting there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was decidedly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, observing the women glide through the portal while I was obliged to line up dutifully in queue with my fellow fellas, fiddling at whatever we had in our jackets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Genre of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a entire form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little experience. Women, I surmise, have developed skills to be rather good at it, exchanging small talk and an interesting insight or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some female friends of my acquaintance. The consensus is that queue-based communication is restricted to the occasional eye roll and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate told me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations later that chat tends to begin.

If I was a woman, I’d not spend a moment on both niceties or quiet. If I was forced, over and over, to stand in a shared procession merely for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the utter unfairness of it. A useful measure for any advanced culture would be gender parity in urination waiting times. I’m looking for data on this.

Comradely Banter in the Procession

Back in my queue, I endeavoured to spark some brotherly banter going about this novel situation of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something like: “So, this represents an irksome difference, right lads?”

Someone grinned, another looked blank, a third individual looked sheepish. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more manifestation of a failing society, woke madness etc. For the most part, silence reigned. Someone emerged, fastening his trousers. The queue shuffled up a position. A couple more men joined the back of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Moment

A female wafted out of the neighbouring restroom, all clean and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned apologetically at her, attempting to convey acknowledgement of this upside-down situation. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for support, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and at that point I may give you the time of day.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She said nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I truly could not censure her.