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Just before Christmas, I experienced an unusual incident. I feel it did me good. This took place at a get-together of some old friends, who happen to be tooth doctors, but it's not pertinent. The assembled crowd were solely men, which turns out to be relevant.

A Strange Predicament

The venue was a bar and eatery doing a brisk business. A wasted session was enjoyed by everyone. Fine cuisine, good drink and surprisingly amusing tales about dentistry. Inevitably, the point arrived for excursions to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, appeared to be away a considerable while. I didn't ponder the reason this might have been, but when it came to my go, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Taste of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any female reader here. I am acutely conscious that, for females, needing to line up to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I seen women queuing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the hassle of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of humiliation about waiting there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was truly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, seeing the opposite gender breeze through the portal while I was obliged to stand solemnly in queue with my fellow fellas, angling away at whatever we had in our pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Art of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a whole conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal familiarity. Ladies, I surmise, have become adept to be rather good at it, sharing pleasantries and an engaging comment or two.

On this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my circle. The consensus is that intra-queue communication is confined to the occasional eye roll and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate told me it’s exclusively at the sinks later that discussion tends to start up.

If I was a lady, I’d refrain from on either pleasantries or quiet. If I was forced, over and over, to queue in a shared procession simply for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the pure unfairness of it. A handy measure for any advanced culture would be gender parity in toilet lining-up periods. I’m looking for studies on this.

Male Chat in the Queue

Back in my queue, I tried to get some male camaraderie flowing about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something to the effect of: “So, this makes an irksome difference, right lads?”

Someone chuckled, another appeared confused, a other man appeared embarrassed. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further manifestation of modern woes, political correctness etc. Otherwise, stillness ensued. Someone emerged, fastening his trousers. The line advanced a spot. A couple more men took a place at the end of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Interaction

A lady wafted out of the neighbouring toilet, all fragrant and relaxed. It was all right for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, trying to convey recognition of this topsy-turvy scenario. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you jerk. Come back when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and at that point I might give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly could not blame her.