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In the run-up to the holidays, I encountered an extraordinary incident. I believe it did me good. This occurred at a get-together of some old friends, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The attending crowd were all blokes, which proves to be key.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The location was a pub/restaurant doing a brisk business. A wasted session was enjoyed by everyone. Fine food, good beverages and remarkably entertaining anecdotes about teeth. Naturally, the moment dawned for visits to the male facilities. Those who went, I half-noticed, looked to be absent a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it was my go, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men's. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue knew.

A Taste of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely conscious that, for women, needing to line up to use a convenience is standard practice. How many times have I observed women waiting in a line while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the inconvenience of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about waiting there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was truly bracing to get a taste of it myself, observing the women breeze through the entrance while I was forced to stand solemnly with others with my mates, fiddling at anything we had in our trouser pockets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a complete form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal familiarity. Ladies, I presume, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, exchanging small talk and an notable observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some women of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is limited to the odd weary glance and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague told me it’s exclusively at the sinks subsequently that discussion tends to begin.

Were I a woman, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or reticence. If I was compelled, over and over, to queue in a public line only for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the utter unfairness of it. A useful measure for any civilised society would be balanced access in wee waiting times. I’m researching data on this.

Comradely Chat in the Procession

During my time in my queue, I endeavoured to initiate some friendly chat flowing about this new situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and said something to the effect of: “Well, this represents an unpleasant change, right lads?”

Someone grinned, another looked blank, a third seemed awkward. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further symptom of modern woes, woke madness etc. For the most part, quiet reigned. A man came out, zipping up. The group advanced a position. Two more men joined the end of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Interaction

A female emerged out of the neighbouring facility, all fragrant and at ease. It was all right for some. I grinned apologetically at her, trying to express an understanding of this topsy-turvy situation. She said: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you bastard. Return when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and only then I could give you the time.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She uttered anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I truly could not blame her.