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Shortly before the festive season, I experienced an remarkable situation. I believe it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dental professionals, but that’s not relevant. The attending crowd were exclusively male, which turns out to be key.

A Strange Situation

The location was a tavern doing a roaring trade. A lost session was had by all. Nice cuisine, nice beverages and surprisingly amusing anecdotes about teeth. As expected, the time arrived for visits to the men's room. Those who went, I half-noticed, appeared to be gone a considerable while. I didn't ponder the reason this might have been, but when it came to me next, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering knew.

A Taste of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any female reader here. I am obviously cognizant that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a convenience is standard practice. How many times have I observed women queuing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the hassle of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a hint of indignity about standing there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was profoundly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, watching the opposite gender glide through the portal while I was compelled to wait patiently in line with my companions, angling away at anything we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Art of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant familiarity. Females, I imagine, have become adept to be rather good at it, engaging in polite remarks and an interesting observation or two.

On this I’ve polled some female friends of my acquaintance. The consensus is that within-the-line interaction is limited to the odd exasperated look and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate told me it’s exclusively at the washbasins later that conversation tends to break out.

Had I been a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both niceties or quiet. If I was compelled, time and again, to wait in a shared procession merely for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the pure inequity of it. A valuable metric for any civilised community would be equal waiting times in toilet lining-up periods. I’m researching data on this.

Male Interaction in the Line

Returning to my line, I endeavoured to spark some friendly chat going about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something to the effect of: “Ah, this is an irksome difference, doesn’t it chaps?”

One person smiled, a second appeared confused, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Another shook his head as if this was one more example of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, quiet prevailed. An individual came out, adjusting his clothing. The group shuffled up a place. A couple more men took a place at the rear of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Interaction

A female glided out of the next-door toilet, all clean and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed apologetically at her, endeavouring to express an understanding of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for support, you blighter. Return when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and only then I could give you the time.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She said nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I truly wouldn’t fault her.