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Just before the holidays, I encountered an extraordinary situation. I believe it proved instructive. This took place at a meeting of some old friends, who happen to be tooth doctors, but it's not pertinent. The assembled group were solely men, which is significant.

A Strange Scenario

The establishment was a tavern doing a brisk business. A wasted session was enjoyed by everyone. Fine fare, fine libations and remarkably humorous stories about dentistry. As expected, the time dawned for visits to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, looked to be absent a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it came to my go, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Sample of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any woman here. I am acutely conscious that, for women, having to queue to use a convenience is standard practice. How many times have I observed women waiting in a row while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Beyond the annoyance of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of humiliation about waiting there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was truly sobering to get a taste of it myself, seeing the women glide through the door while I was compelled to line up dutifully in line with my companions, looking distractedly at anything we had in our trouser pockets and checking our phones.

The Art of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant familiarity. Ladies, I imagine, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, sharing pleasantries and an interesting observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my circle. The consensus is that intra-queue dialogue is limited to the odd eye roll and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague informed me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations subsequently that conversation tends to begin.

Were I a woman, I’d waste no time on both niceties or reticence. If I was forced, over and over, to wait in a public line simply for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the sheer unfairness of it. A valuable metric for any advanced culture would be equal waiting times in toilet queue durations. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Line

Back in my wait, I endeavoured to spark some male camaraderie going about this novel situation of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and said something like: “So, this represents an irksome variation, isn't it chaps?”

One person smiled, another looked blank, a third individual seemed awkward. Yet another shook his head as if this was one more example of modern woes, political correctness etc. Aside from that, stillness reigned. A man came out, fastening his trousers. The group shuffled up a spot. A couple more men joined the rear of it. I sighed.

A Silent Exchange

A woman emerged out of the neighbouring facility, all fragrant and at ease. It was all right for some. I beamed bashfully at her, trying to communicate an understanding of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't come to me for support, you blighter. Return when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and only then I could give you the time of day.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She said nothing. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly could not censure her.