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Shortly before the festive season, I experienced an extraordinary situation. I feel it proved instructive. This occurred at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but it's not pertinent. The assembled party were all blokes, which is relevant.

A Strange Predicament

The establishment was a tavern enjoying a brisk business. A forgotten session was enjoyed by everyone. Good cuisine, nice libations and remarkably humorous stories about dentistry. Naturally, the moment came for excursions to the men's room. Those who went, I half-noticed, seemed to be away a long time. I didn’t dwell on why this might have been, but when it became my turn, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Taste of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any lady here. I am obviously conscious that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is the norm. How many times have I seen women standing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

In addition to the inconvenience of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about waiting there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was truly bracing to have a sample of it myself, seeing the other sex breeze through the entrance while I was obliged to wait patiently with others with my mates, fiddling at whatever we had in our pockets and checking our phones.

The Genre of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a complete form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little knowledge. Women, I surmise, have learned to be quite proficient at it, exchanging pleasantries and an notable insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some female friends of my knowledge. The general agreement is that queue-based communication is restricted to the occasional exasperated look and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate mentioned it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations later that chat tends to begin.

If I was a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both pleasantries or reticence. If I was forced, time and again, to queue in a public line only for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the sheer inequity of it. A useful benchmark for any civilised culture would be balanced access in wee waiting times. I’m researching research on this.

Comradely Chat in the Procession

Returning to my queue, I endeavoured to get some brotherly banter flowing about this novel situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something like: “So, this is an irksome difference, isn't it lads?”

Someone grinned, a second appeared confused, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further manifestation of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, silence reigned. An individual emerged, adjusting his clothing. The group shuffled up a place. A couple more men took a place at the back of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Exchange

A woman wafted out of the next-door facility, all fresh and at ease. It was all right for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, trying to convey an understanding of this topsy-turvy situation. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for support, you blighter. Return when you’ve done this a hundred more times and only then I may give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She said nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I truly would not fault her.