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Shortly before Christmas, I encountered an extraordinary incident. I think it proved instructive. This happened at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dentists, but this isn't relevant. The present group were exclusively male, which is key.

A Novel Predicament

The venue was a pub/restaurant enjoying a brisk business. A wasted daytime was shared by the group. Fine food, good beverages and surprisingly entertaining stories about oral health. Inevitably, the time arrived for excursions to the male facilities. Those who departed, I partially registered, appeared to be away a long time. I didn't ponder why this was, but when it was me next, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the men's restroom. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue recognised.

A Taste of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any woman here. I am fully aware that, for females, needing to line up to use a restroom is the norm. How many times have I seen women standing in a line 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 humiliation about waiting there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly bracing to have a sample of it myself, watching the women glide through the entrance while I was forced to wait patiently in line with my companions, fiddling at anything we had in our jackets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal experience. Ladies, I imagine, have become adept to be rather good at it, exchanging pleasantries and an engaging comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some women of my circle. The general agreement is that queue-based communication is confined to the rare exasperated look and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate told me it’s exclusively at the sinks later that chat tends to start up.

If I was a female, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or silence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to stand in a common queue simply for the chance to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the sheer inequity of it. A handy benchmark for any modern culture would be balanced access in toilet queue durations. I’m looking for research on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Line

Back in my wait, I endeavoured to get some friendly chat flowing about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something like: “Ah, this makes an disagreeable change, doesn’t it boys?”

A fellow smiled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a other man looked sheepish. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was a further manifestation of a failing society, woke madness etc. Otherwise, stillness ensued. Someone emerged, fastening his trousers. The queue moved forward a spot. A couple more men entered the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Moment

A female glided out of the next-door facility, all fresh and at ease. It was all right for some. I beamed bashfully at her, attempting to communicate acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you blighter. Return when you’ve done this another hundred times and at that point I may give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly could not fault her.