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Shortly before Christmas, I had an remarkable incident. I think it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a meeting of several mates, who are incidentally dental professionals, but that’s not important. The present group were exclusively male, which is significant.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The venue was a tavern enjoying a brisk business. A wasted session was enjoyed by everyone. Nice food, good beverages and unexpectedly amusing anecdotes about oral health. As expected, the time arrived for visits to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, appeared to be absent a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it was my go, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue knew.

A Taste of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect pity from any woman here. I am acutely conscious that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is the norm. On countless occasions have I seen women waiting in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the inconvenience of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a hint of indignity about lingering there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was decidedly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the other sex walk straight through the entrance while I was obliged to wait patiently with others with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at anything we had in our pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Art of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a entire form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal knowledge. Ladies, I surmise, have become adept to be rather good at it, engaging in pleasantries and an interesting observation or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some female friends of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that within-the-line interaction is limited to the odd weary glance and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague told me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations later that chat tends to begin.

Had I been a lady, I’d waste no time on both niceties or reticence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to wait in a shared procession only for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter unfairness of it. A valuable metric for any modern community would be balanced access in toilet lining-up periods. I’m researching data on this.

Male Interaction in the Queue

Returning to my line, I endeavoured to spark some brotherly banter going about this unprecedented situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and said something like: “Ah, this makes an disagreeable difference, doesn’t it chaps?”

Someone smiled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a other man looked sheepish. Yet another shook his head as if this was one more example of modern woes, political correctness etc. For the most part, silence prevailed. Someone emerged, zipping up. The line advanced a place. Another two men entered the end of it. I sighed.

A Silent Exchange

A lady glided out of the neighbouring restroom, all fresh and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, trying to communicate recognition of this upside-down state of affairs. She remarked: “Don't come to me for support, you blighter. Return when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and then I may give you the courtesy.”

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