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In the run-up to Christmas, I encountered an unusual episode. I believe it was beneficial for me. This happened at a gathering of some old friends, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but this isn't relevant. The assembled group were all blokes, which is relevant.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The establishment was a bar and eatery enjoying a excellent custom. A forgotten afternoon was had by all. Fine fare, nice drink and surprisingly humorous stories about teeth. Inevitably, the moment dawned for trips to the male facilities. Those who went, I half-noticed, seemed to be gone a considerable while. I didn't contemplate why this could be, but when it was my turn, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line recognised.

A Sample of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for sympathy from any lady here. I am acutely aware that, for females, having to queue to use a restroom is the norm. How many times have I witnessed women standing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the annoyance of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of indignity about standing there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was truly bracing to have a sample of it myself, observing the women breeze through the door while I was compelled to stand solemnly with others with my companions, angling away at anything we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal knowledge. Ladies, I imagine, have become adept to be rather good at it, exchanging small talk and an notable insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The consensus is that intra-queue dialogue is confined to the odd exasperated look and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague mentioned it’s only at the sinks later that chat tends to start up.

If I was a woman, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or quiet. If I was obliged, time and again, to stand in a public line only for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the pure unfairness of it. A useful benchmark for any modern society would be equal waiting times in wee queue durations. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Comradely Banter in the Procession

Returning to my queue, I attempted to initiate some brotherly banter flowing about this new situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something like: “So, this represents an unpleasant change, right boys?”

A fellow smiled, a second seemed nonplussed, a third individual looked sheepish. Another rolled his eyes as if this was a further example of modern woes, woke madness etc. For the most part, quiet prevailed. A man came out, fastening his trousers. The group advanced a position. Two more men entered the rear of it. I sighed.

A Silent Interaction

A female emerged out of the adjacent facility, all fragrant and at ease. It was just fine for some. I beamed bashfully at her, trying to express an understanding of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She remarked: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and at that point I might give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She said a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I really would not censure her.