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Shortly before the festive season, I had an extraordinary situation. I believe it did me good. This happened at a gathering of several mates, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but that’s not important. The present group were exclusively male, which turns out to be relevant.

A Novel Predicament

The location was a bar and eatery enjoying a roaring trade. A lost session was had by all. Good fare, good libations and remarkably entertaining tales about teeth. Naturally, the moment came for trips to the gents. Those who departed, I half-noticed, looked to be away a long time. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it became my go, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line knew.

A Sample of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect pity from any female reader here. I am obviously conscious that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a public toilet is the norm. On countless occasions have I witnessed women waiting in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Apart from the annoyance of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about standing there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was truly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, observing the opposite gender breeze through the entrance while I was obliged to wait patiently with others with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at something we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Genre of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a entire conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal knowledge. Women, I imagine, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, engaging in small talk and an engaging insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some female friends of my knowledge. The general agreement is that queue-based interaction is restricted to the occasional eye roll and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate told me it’s only at the washbasins later that chat tends to start up.

Had I been a lady, I’d refrain from on both pleasantries or quiet. If I was obliged, time and again, to queue in a public line merely for the chance to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the pure inequity of it. A valuable metric for any civilised community would be equal waiting times in urination queue durations. I’m looking for studies on this.

Male Interaction in the Procession

Returning to my line, I endeavoured to initiate some male camaraderie flowing about this unprecedented situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and said something along the lines of: “Well, this is an disagreeable difference, doesn’t it lads?”

One person smiled, another seemed nonplussed, a other man appeared embarrassed. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was yet another manifestation of a failing society, woke madness etc. For the most part, quiet ensued. An individual exited, zipping up. The group moved forward a spot. Another two men entered the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Exchange

A female glided out of the next-door restroom, all fresh and relaxed. It was all right for some. I beamed apologetically at her, trying to express recognition of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She said: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you blighter. Come back when you’ve done this on a regular basis and at that point I might give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She uttered a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly wouldn’t blame her.