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Just before Christmas, I had an remarkable incident. I think it did me good. This occurred at a meeting of some old friends, who happen to be tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The attending group were all blokes, which proves to be key.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The venue was a tavern doing a brisk business. A wasted daytime was had by all. Fine food, nice beverages and surprisingly amusing stories about oral health. Inevitably, the time arrived for trips to the men's room. Those who went, I partially registered, looked to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it was me next, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line were accustomed to.

A Sample of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for pity from any woman here. I am obviously conscious that, for women, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is the norm. How many times have I witnessed women standing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

In addition to the annoyance of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a tinge of humiliation about standing there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was truly bracing to have a sample of it myself, seeing the opposite gender glide through the door while I was compelled to stand solemnly in line with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant familiarity. Ladies, I imagine, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging pleasantries and an notable comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some female friends of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that queue-based communication is confined to the odd exasperated look and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague told me it’s only at the washbasins afterwards that discussion tends to break out.

Had I been a lady, I’d waste no time on both small talk or quiet. If I was obliged, time and again, to queue in a shared procession only for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter unfairness of it. A handy metric for any civilised community would be balanced access in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for studies on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Queue

Returning to my line, I attempted to spark some male camaraderie started about this unprecedented situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and said something like: “So, this makes an disagreeable variation, doesn’t it lads?”

One person grinned, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third looked sheepish. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another example of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, quiet prevailed. Someone emerged, zipping up. The group shuffled up a place. Another two men took a place at the rear of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Moment

A female wafted out of the adjacent restroom, all fragrant and unhurried. It was all right for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, trying to communicate an understanding of this reversed scenario. Her response was: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve done this another hundred times and then I may give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She said anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I really would not blame her.