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Shortly before Christmas, I experienced an remarkable episode. I feel it did me good. This happened at a meeting of several mates, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but that’s not pertinent. The present crowd were solely men, which is significant.

A Novel Predicament

The establishment was a bar and eatery experiencing a brisk business. A lost session was had by all. Fine fare, nice libations and remarkably humorous tales about oral health. Inevitably, the moment dawned for trips to the gents. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, seemed to be gone a long time. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it was my turn, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue recognised.

A Sample of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any woman here. I am fully cognizant that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a convenience is standard practice. Repeatedly have I witnessed women queuing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the annoyance of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about standing there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was truly bracing to get a taste of it myself, observing the other sex glide through the door while I was forced to stand solemnly with others with my mates, angling away at something we had in our jackets and consulting our handsets.

The Art of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal experience. Females, I surmise, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, exchanging small talk and an notable insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The consensus is that intra-queue interaction is restricted to the odd weary glance and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate told me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations later that discussion tends to begin.

Were I a female, I’d waste no time on both pleasantries or quiet. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to wait in a public line merely for the chance to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like crazy at the pure inequity of it. A valuable metric for any civilised community would be gender parity in toilet queue durations. I’m looking for studies on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Queue

Back in my queue, I attempted to initiate some brotherly banter flowing about this new situation of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something like: “So, this makes an irksome variation, doesn’t it chaps?”

A fellow smiled, another seemed nonplussed, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Another rolled his eyes as if this was one more example of modern woes, woke madness etc. For the most part, stillness reigned. Someone came out, zipping up. The queue shuffled up a position. Two more men took a place at the rear of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Exchange

A female glided out of the adjacent facility, all fragrant and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned bashfully at her, attempting to convey recognition of this upside-down state of affairs. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and at that point I might give you the time.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She said a word. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I honestly wouldn’t censure her.