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In the run-up to the holidays, I had an remarkable incident. I believe it proved instructive. This happened at a get-together of several mates, who happen to be dentists, but this isn't important. The assembled crowd were solely men, which proves to be significant.

A Novel Scenario

The establishment was a tavern experiencing a brisk business. A lost session was shared by the group. Nice cuisine, good libations and surprisingly entertaining stories about oral health. As expected, the time dawned for trips to the men's room. Those who went, I vaguely observed, looked to be away a considerable while. I didn't ponder why this might have been, but when it was my turn, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue recognised.

An Experience of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any woman here. I am obviously conscious that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a public toilet is standard practice. Repeatedly have I seen women standing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the hassle of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a hint of indignity about waiting there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was profoundly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, observing the opposite gender walk straight through the door while I was forced to stand solemnly in queue with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a complete form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant experience. Females, I surmise, have learned to be quite proficient at it, engaging in small talk and an interesting observation or two.

On this I’ve asked some female friends of my acquaintance. The consensus is that within-the-line interaction is restricted to the occasional weary glance and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague told me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations subsequently that discussion tends to break out.

If I was a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either niceties or silence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to stand in a shared procession merely for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the sheer unfairness of it. A valuable metric for any civilised community would be gender parity in urination lining-up periods. I’m researching research on this.

Comradely Banter in the Line

Back in my wait, I attempted to get some brotherly banter started about this unprecedented situation of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something along the lines of: “Well, this represents an disagreeable change, isn't it chaps?”

One person chuckled, another seemed nonplussed, a third individual seemed awkward. A further person shook his head as if this was yet another symptom of modern woes, woke madness etc. For the most part, silence reigned. A man emerged, zipping up. The queue shuffled up a spot. Two more men entered the rear of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Interaction

A female glided out of the next-door facility, all fresh and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled apologetically at her, attempting to convey recognition of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you blighter. Come back when you’ve done this another hundred times and only then I might give you the time.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I really would not fault her.