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Just before the holidays, I had an unusual episode. I feel it did me good. This occurred at a meeting of some old friends, who are incidentally dentists, but this isn't important. The attending crowd were all blokes, which turns out to be key.

A Strange Predicament

The location was a tavern experiencing a roaring trade. A wasted afternoon was shared by the group. Fine food, nice beverages and remarkably amusing stories about teeth. Naturally, the point dawned for excursions to the men's room. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, looked to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this was, but when it came to my turn, the mystery was solved.

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

A Sample of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect pity from any woman here. I am obviously conscious that, for females, having to queue to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I seen women queuing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Apart from the inconvenience of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a tinge of humiliation 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 women glide through the door while I was obliged to wait patiently in queue with my mates, angling away at anything we had in our jackets and checking our phones.

The Art of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a whole form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little familiarity. Women, I imagine, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging pleasantries and an notable comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some female friends of my knowledge. The general agreement is that queue-based communication is limited to the rare exasperated look and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate informed me it’s only at the hand-washing stations subsequently that chat tends to start up.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or quiet. If I was obliged, over and over, to queue in a shared procession simply for the chance to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like crazy at the pure injustice of it. A useful metric for any modern culture would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for research on this.

Male Chat in the Line

During my time in my line, I attempted to get some male camaraderie started about this novel circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something along the lines of: “Well, this represents an irksome change, doesn’t it boys?”

Someone chuckled, someone else looked blank, a other man appeared embarrassed. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was a further example of modern woes, woke madness etc. Otherwise, stillness ensued. Someone came out, fastening his trousers. The group shuffled up a place. Another two men took a place at the rear of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Interaction

A lady wafted out of the adjacent facility, all fresh and unhurried. It was all right for some. I smiled apologetically at her, trying to express recognition of this reversed state of affairs. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you blighter. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and then I may give you the time.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She said a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I really would not censure her.