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Shortly before Christmas, I encountered an unusual situation. I think it proved instructive. This occurred at a gathering of several mates, who are incidentally dentists, but it's not pertinent. The present crowd were solely men, which is key.

A Strange Scenario

The venue was a tavern enjoying a brisk business. A wasted afternoon was had by all. Fine cuisine, nice libations and surprisingly humorous anecdotes about dentistry. Naturally, the time came for visits to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, seemed to be away a significant period. I didn't ponder why this could be, but when it became me next, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line knew.

An Experience of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect empathy from any lady here. I am fully aware that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a convenience is standard practice. Repeatedly have I seen women queuing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

In addition to the hassle of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of indignity about lingering there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was truly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, watching the other sex walk straight through the portal while I was compelled to line up dutifully in queue with my mates, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little familiarity. Females, I presume, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, sharing small talk and an notable comment or two.

On this I’ve consulted some women of my circle. The consensus is that intra-queue dialogue is confined to the odd weary glance and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague told me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations later that discussion tends to begin.

If I was a female, I’d refrain from on either pleasantries or silence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to queue in a common queue simply for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the sheer inequity of it. A handy metric for any modern community would be balanced access in toilet waiting times. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Comradely Banter in the Line

Back in my queue, I tried to get some friendly chat going about this new state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something to the effect of: “Well, this represents an irksome variation, doesn’t it lads?”

Someone grinned, another appeared confused, a other man seemed awkward. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was a further manifestation of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, quiet reigned. Someone emerged, adjusting his clothing. The queue moved forward a place. Two more men entered the end of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Interaction

A woman emerged out of the next-door toilet, all clean and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, endeavouring to convey acknowledgement of this reversed state of affairs. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you jerk. Return when you’ve done this another hundred times and at that point I may give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She didn’t say a word. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I truly wouldn’t blame her.