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Shortly before the festive season, I had an unusual incident. I feel it proved instructive. This took place at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dentists, but this isn't important. The present group were all blokes, which proves to be key.

A Novel Situation

The venue was a bar and eatery enjoying a roaring trade. A wasted session was shared by the group. Fine cuisine, fine libations and remarkably entertaining anecdotes about dentistry. Inevitably, the point dawned for trips to the male facilities. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, looked to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it came to me next, everything was revealed.

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

A Sample of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any lady here. I am fully cognizant that, for ladies, having to queue to use a public toilet is the norm. How many times have I observed women standing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Beyond the hassle of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of humiliation about standing there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was truly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, seeing the opposite gender breeze through the entrance while I was forced to wait patiently in queue with my mates, fiddling at anything we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Genre of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a whole conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little experience. Females, I surmise, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in small talk and an notable observation or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some women of my circle. The general agreement is that queue-based dialogue is restricted to the occasional weary glance and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate informed me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations later that chat tends to break out.

Were I a woman, I’d refrain from on either pleasantries or silence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to stand in a shared procession only for the chance to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like crazy at the sheer inequity of it. A handy benchmark for any civilised community would be equal waiting times in toilet waiting times. I’m looking for research on this.

Comradely Chat in the Procession

Back in my line, I tried to initiate some friendly chat started about this unprecedented situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and said something along the lines of: “Ah, this represents an irksome difference, right chaps?”

Someone smiled, a second looked blank, a third seemed awkward. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more manifestation of a failing society, political correctness etc. Aside from that, quiet prevailed. Someone came out, adjusting his clothing. The group advanced a spot. Another two men entered the end of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Exchange

A woman emerged out of the neighbouring facility, all fragrant and at ease. It was just fine for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, trying to express recognition of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you jerk. Return when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and at that point I might give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She uttered nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I honestly would not censure her.