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Just before the holidays, I had an remarkable incident. I believe it was beneficial for me. This took place at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but this isn't relevant. The attending group were exclusively male, which turns out to be key.

A Strange Predicament

The establishment was a pub/restaurant experiencing a brisk business. A forgotten afternoon was shared by the group. Good cuisine, good libations and unexpectedly entertaining tales about dentistry. Naturally, the moment dawned for excursions to the men's room. Those who departed, I partially registered, seemed to be away a long time. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it became me next, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering knew.

A Taste of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for sympathy from any woman here. I am obviously conscious that, for women, being forced to wait to use a convenience is standard practice. On countless occasions have I witnessed women standing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Beyond the hassle of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a hint of humiliation about standing there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was profoundly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, observing the other sex walk straight through the door while I was obliged to line up dutifully in line with my fellow fellas, angling away at something we had in our jackets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little knowledge. Females, I surmise, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, sharing pleasantries and an interesting insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some women of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that intra-queue interaction is confined to the occasional weary glance and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate mentioned it’s merely at the sinks subsequently that conversation tends to start up.

If I was a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either pleasantries or silence. If I was forced, time and again, to queue in a common queue simply for the chance to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the pure unfairness of it. A useful benchmark for any modern community would be gender parity in toilet waiting times. I’m researching research on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Procession

During my time in my wait, I tried to initiate some friendly chat going about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and said something to the effect of: “So, this makes an irksome difference, doesn’t it chaps?”

Someone chuckled, someone else appeared confused, a third looked sheepish. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more symptom of modern woes, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, silence reigned. A man came out, adjusting his clothing. The group shuffled up a place. Two more men joined the end of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Interaction

A woman wafted out of the next-door facility, all clean and unhurried. It was all right for some. I smiled bashfully at her, attempting to communicate acknowledgement of this upside-down state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you jerk. Come back when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and then I may give you the time.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She uttered nothing. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I really wouldn’t blame her.