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Shortly before the festive season, I experienced an unusual situation. I feel it was beneficial for me. This took place at a meeting of some old friends, who happen to be dentists, but this isn't relevant. The present party were all blokes, which is relevant.

A Novel Scenario

The establishment was a tavern enjoying a excellent custom. A forgotten afternoon was shared by the group. Nice food, nice libations and remarkably entertaining tales about teeth. Naturally, the moment dawned for excursions to the men's room. Those who went, I half-noticed, looked to be absent a significant period. I didn't contemplate why this might have been, but when it came to me next, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Taste of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any female reader here. I am fully conscious that, for women, having to queue to use a restroom is the norm. On countless occasions have I observed women standing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the hassle of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of indignity about waiting there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly bracing to get a taste of it myself, seeing the women glide through the portal while I was compelled to wait patiently with others with my fellow fellas, fiddling at anything we had in our jackets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal familiarity. Ladies, I surmise, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging small talk and an notable comment or two.

On this I’ve consulted some female friends of my circle. The prevailing view is that intra-queue communication is limited to the odd eye roll and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate informed me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations later that chat tends to break out.

Had I been a lady, I’d not spend a moment on either pleasantries or silence. If I was obliged, time and again, to queue in a common queue simply for the chance to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the utter inequity of it. A handy metric for any modern culture would be gender parity in urination waiting times. I’m seeking out data on this.

Male Banter in the Line

During my time in my queue, I endeavoured to spark some male camaraderie flowing about this novel state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and said something like: “So, this makes an irksome variation, doesn’t it chaps?”

Someone chuckled, a second appeared confused, a third individual appeared embarrassed. A further person shook his head as if this was yet another example of modern woes, cultural decline etc. For the most part, silence reigned. A man exited, fastening his trousers. The queue advanced a position. A couple more men entered the back of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Exchange

A female emerged out of the neighbouring toilet, all clean and relaxed. It was all right for some. I beamed apologetically at her, attempting to express acknowledgement of this upside-down state of affairs. She said: “Don't come to me for support, you jerk. Return when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and at that point I could give you the time of day.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She said anything. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly could not fault her.