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In the run-up to the holidays, I encountered an unusual situation. I believe it proved instructive. This occurred at a meeting of some old friends, who happen to be dentists, but this isn't relevant. The attending party were solely men, which proves to be relevant.

A Novel Scenario

The venue was a pub/restaurant enjoying a excellent custom. A wasted session was had by all. Fine cuisine, fine libations and remarkably entertaining stories about oral health. Naturally, the time came for trips to the men's room. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, seemed to be absent a considerable while. I didn't ponder the reason this might have been, but when it came to my turn, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. An empty space 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 gathering knew.

An Experience of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any lady here. I am fully conscious that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a public toilet is the norm. On countless occasions have I witnessed women standing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a tinge of humiliation about waiting there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was truly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, watching the opposite gender breeze through the portal while I was obliged to line up dutifully in queue with my fellow fellas, fiddling at something we had in our trouser pockets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little experience. Women, I presume, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging small talk and an notable insight or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some women of my circle. The consensus is that queue-based communication is restricted to the odd exasperated look and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate informed me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations subsequently that chat tends to start up.

If I was a lady, I’d waste no time on either niceties or silence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to queue in a public line merely for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the utter unfairness of it. A valuable measure for any modern community would be equal waiting times in wee queue durations. I’m seeking out data on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Line

Returning to my wait, I attempted to spark some brotherly banter started about this novel circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something like: “Well, this is an irksome variation, doesn’t it chaps?”

One person chuckled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a other man seemed awkward. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was a further symptom of a failing society, woke madness etc. Otherwise, quiet prevailed. A man emerged, zipping up. The group advanced a position. Another two men entered the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Interaction

A woman emerged out of the next-door facility, all fresh and at ease. It was just fine for some. I smiled apologetically at her, endeavouring to convey an understanding of this reversed scenario. She said: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve done this a hundred more times and at that point I may give you the time of day.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She said a word. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I really would not fault her.