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In the run-up to the holidays, I had an extraordinary episode. I feel it proved instructive. This took place at a meeting of several mates, who happen to be tooth doctors, but that’s not pertinent. The present crowd were solely men, which proves to be significant.

A Strange Scenario

The establishment was a pub/restaurant doing a roaring trade. A forgotten afternoon was had by all. Fine fare, nice beverages and surprisingly humorous anecdotes about oral health. As expected, the point came for trips to the male facilities. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, looked to be away a long time. I didn't contemplate why this could be, but when it came to me next, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a great long one for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering knew.

A Sample of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for pity from any lady here. I am acutely cognizant that, for women, needing to line up to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I seen women waiting in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the hassle of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a hint of humiliation about waiting there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was decidedly sobering to get a taste of it myself, observing the women breeze through the door while I was forced to line up dutifully in line with my mates, fiddling at whatever we had in our jackets and checking our mobile devices.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal knowledge. Women, I presume, have learned to be quite proficient at it, exchanging pleasantries and an notable insight or two.

On this I’ve polled some women of my circle. The general agreement is that intra-queue dialogue is limited to the occasional exasperated look and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague informed me it’s only at the hand-washing stations afterwards that discussion tends to break out.

Were I a female, I’d refrain from on either niceties or reticence. If I was obliged, time and again, to stand in a public line merely for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the utter inequity of it. A valuable measure for any civilised culture would be balanced access in urination waiting times. I’m researching studies on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Queue

Back in my wait, I endeavoured to get some brotherly banter going about this new state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something like: “Ah, this makes an unpleasant change, isn't it chaps?”

One person grinned, another appeared confused, a other man appeared embarrassed. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was a further manifestation of modern woes, cultural decline etc. For the most part, quiet reigned. Someone emerged, adjusting his clothing. The group advanced a position. Another two men joined the back of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Moment

A female glided out of the adjacent toilet, all clean and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, endeavouring to express recognition of this upside-down situation. She said: “Don't come to me for support, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve endured this another hundred times and then I might give you the time of day.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She didn’t say anything. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I truly could not censure her.