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Shortly before Christmas, I experienced an extraordinary episode. I feel it did me good. This happened at a gathering of some old friends, who are, as it happens dentists, but it's not relevant. The assembled party were exclusively male, which turns out to be key.

A Novel Predicament

The location was a bar and eatery doing a roaring trade. A wasted session was shared by the group. Fine fare, fine beverages and surprisingly amusing anecdotes about oral health. Inevitably, the point arrived for excursions to the men's room. Those who departed, I partially registered, appeared to be gone a significant period. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it became me next, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a great long one for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

An Experience of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any lady here. I am obviously cognizant that, for women, being forced to wait to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I observed women waiting in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

In addition to the inconvenience of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a hint of indignity about lingering there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was profoundly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, watching the other sex breeze through the door while I was forced to wait patiently with others with my mates, looking distractedly at something we had in our jackets and scrolling through our phones.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a entire conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal knowledge. Women, I surmise, have developed skills to be rather good at it, engaging in small talk and an interesting observation or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my circle. The consensus is that intra-queue interaction is restricted to the odd eye roll and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate mentioned it’s only at the hand-washing stations afterwards that discussion tends to begin.

If I was a female, I’d not spend a moment on either pleasantries or quiet. If I was forced, time and again, to queue in a shared procession merely for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the pure unfairness of it. A handy benchmark for any advanced community would be equal waiting times in toilet lining-up periods. I’m seeking out research on this.

Male Banter in the Queue

During my time in my line, I endeavoured to spark some male camaraderie started about this novel situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and said something like: “Ah, this is an disagreeable variation, isn't it chaps?”

A fellow grinned, another looked blank, a third individual looked sheepish. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more example of a failing society, woke madness etc. For the most part, silence ensued. An individual came out, zipping up. The group moved forward a place. Another two men entered the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Moment

A woman wafted out of the next-door restroom, all clean and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned bashfully at her, attempting to communicate recognition of this reversed state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and only then I might give you the time.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She uttered a word. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I really would not censure her.