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Just before the festive season, I encountered an unusual situation. I think it was beneficial for me. This took place at a get-together of several mates, who happen to be tooth doctors, but that’s not pertinent. The attending crowd were exclusively male, which proves to be key.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The venue was a tavern enjoying a roaring trade. A lost session was enjoyed by everyone. Fine fare, fine drink and remarkably entertaining tales about dentistry. As expected, the point came for excursions to the men's room. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, seemed to be away a long time. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it was me next, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue recognised.

A Taste of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for empathy from any woman here. I am acutely aware that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I seen women standing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Apart from the hassle of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of indignity about lingering there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was truly sobering to get a taste of it myself, observing the women breeze through the portal while I was compelled to wait patiently with others with my companions, fiddling at something we had in our jackets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little familiarity. Females, I presume, have become adept to be rather good at it, exchanging polite remarks and an interesting insight or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some women of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that intra-queue interaction is restricted to the odd weary glance and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague mentioned it’s exclusively at the sinks afterwards that conversation tends to break out.

Had I been a female, I’d not spend a moment on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to wait in a public line simply for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the sheer unfairness of it. A valuable benchmark for any civilised society would be gender parity in urination queue durations. I’m researching studies on this.

Male Chat in the Queue

Back in my line, I tried to get some friendly chat flowing about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and said something along the lines of: “Well, this makes an disagreeable change, doesn’t it lads?”

Someone chuckled, someone else looked blank, a third individual seemed awkward. Yet another shook his head as if this was a further manifestation of modern woes, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, stillness ensued. A man came out, adjusting his clothing. The line advanced a spot. Another two men entered the end of it. I sighed.

A Silent Exchange

A woman wafted out of the adjacent restroom, all clean and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned bashfully at her, trying to convey recognition of this reversed situation. She said: “Don't come to me for support, you bastard. Come back when you’ve done this a hundred more times and only then I could give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I really could not blame her.