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Shortly before the festive season, I had an extraordinary episode. I believe it proved instructive. This happened at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but this isn't relevant. The assembled group were solely men, which is relevant.

A Strange Situation

The location was a tavern enjoying a roaring trade. A lost session was enjoyed by everyone. Nice fare, good libations and remarkably humorous tales about oral health. Inevitably, the point came for trips to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, looked to be absent a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it was my turn, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the men's restroom. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue recognised.

A Taste of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect empathy from any woman here. I am acutely cognizant that, for women, being forced to wait to use a convenience is the norm. How many times have I seen women waiting in a line while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Apart from the annoyance of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a hint of indignity about lingering there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was truly bracing to get a taste of it myself, observing the other sex glide through the entrance while I was forced to line up dutifully with others with my companions, looking distractedly at anything we had in our trouser pockets and checking our handsets.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little experience. Females, I surmise, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in small talk and an engaging observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some female friends of my circle. The prevailing view is that queue-based dialogue is limited to the odd eye roll and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague mentioned it’s merely at the hand-washing stations later that discussion tends to break out.

Were I a female, I’d refrain from on both niceties or quiet. If I was forced, over and over, to queue in a public line merely for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the pure unfairness of it. A valuable benchmark for any advanced culture would be balanced access in wee lining-up periods. I’m seeking out data on this.

Comradely Chat in the Procession

Returning to my queue, I attempted to spark some male camaraderie flowing about this new circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something along the lines of: “So, this is an unpleasant variation, isn't it lads?”

A fellow smiled, someone else appeared confused, a other man seemed awkward. Another shook his head as if this was a further example of modern woes, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, quiet prevailed. An individual emerged, zipping up. The group shuffled up a spot. Two more men entered the end of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Moment

A lady glided out of the neighbouring restroom, all fragrant and unhurried. It was all right for some. I grinned bashfully at her, attempting to express recognition of this upside-down scenario. Her response was: “Don't come to me for support, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and at that point I may give you the time.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She said a word. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly would not blame her.