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Just before Christmas, I had an unusual incident. I believe it did me good. This took place at a gathering of several mates, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The assembled party were all blokes, which is key.

A Novel Situation

The location was a tavern enjoying a excellent custom. A wasted session was shared by the group. Fine fare, fine beverages and remarkably entertaining tales about oral health. Inevitably, the point arrived for excursions to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, seemed to be absent a significant period. I didn't ponder why this might have been, but when it became me next, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue knew.

A Taste of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for sympathy from any female reader here. I am fully cognizant that, for ladies, having to queue to use a convenience is the norm. On countless occasions have I observed women waiting in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the annoyance of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of indignity about lingering there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was decidedly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, observing the other sex breeze through the door while I was compelled to line up dutifully in queue with my fellow fellas, angling away at whatever we had in our pockets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a whole conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little knowledge. Ladies, I presume, have developed skills to be rather good at it, engaging in pleasantries and an engaging observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some female friends of my circle. The consensus is that queue-based communication is confined to the occasional eye roll and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate informed me it’s merely at the sinks subsequently that discussion tends to break out.

Were I a woman, I’d waste no time on either pleasantries or quiet. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to wait in a shared procession only for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the pure unfairness of it. A valuable benchmark for any civilised culture would be gender parity in toilet lining-up periods. I’m seeking out research on this.

Male Chat in the Procession

Back in my line, I endeavoured to get some friendly chat going about this novel state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and said something to the effect of: “Well, this is an irksome difference, doesn’t it boys?”

One person smiled, someone else looked blank, a third individual looked sheepish. Another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another symptom of modern woes, cultural decline etc. For the most part, stillness reigned. Someone exited, adjusting his clothing. The group advanced a position. Two more men joined the rear of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Exchange

A woman emerged out of the neighbouring toilet, all clean and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I smiled bashfully at her, attempting to express acknowledgement of this upside-down situation. She remarked: “Don't come to me for support, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve done this a hundred more times and only then I might give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She uttered a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly wouldn’t censure her.