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Shortly before the holidays, I encountered an remarkable episode. I feel it proved instructive. This took place at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but this isn't important. The assembled group were solely men, which proves to be key.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The establishment was a bar and eatery enjoying a roaring trade. A forgotten daytime was had by all. Fine food, fine drink and surprisingly entertaining stories about teeth. As expected, the moment arrived for excursions to the male facilities. Those who went, I half-noticed, appeared to be absent a long time. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it was my go, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men's. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

An Experience of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any woman here. I am fully conscious that, for ladies, having to queue to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I observed women queuing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

In addition to the annoyance of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about lingering there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, observing the other sex breeze through the entrance while I was compelled to line up dutifully with others with my companions, fiddling at whatever we had in our pockets and checking our mobile devices.

The Art of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a complete form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little familiarity. Females, I surmise, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, engaging in small talk and an notable insight or two.

On this I’ve consulted some female friends of my circle. The general agreement is that intra-queue dialogue is limited to the odd weary glance and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate informed me it’s merely at the washbasins subsequently that conversation tends to begin.

Had I been a female, I’d refrain from on either small talk or reticence. If I was obliged, time and again, to wait in a shared procession only for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the pure inequity of it. A handy measure for any modern society would be balanced access in urination queue durations. I’m researching studies on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Line

Returning to my queue, I tried to spark some male camaraderie started about this novel circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something along the lines of: “Well, this is an disagreeable difference, isn't it chaps?”

Someone smiled, a second looked blank, a third individual seemed awkward. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was a further example of modern woes, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, stillness prevailed. An individual emerged, fastening his trousers. The line advanced a position. A couple more men took a place at the back of it. I sighed.

A Silent Interaction

A woman wafted out of the neighbouring toilet, all clean and unhurried. It was all right for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, attempting to communicate recognition of this reversed scenario. She said: “Don't come to me for support, you blighter. Come back when you’ve done this another hundred times and only then I might give you the time.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She said anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly would not censure her.