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Just before the holidays, I had an remarkable situation. I think it proved instructive. This took place at a gathering of some old friends, who are incidentally dental professionals, but it's not important. The assembled crowd were solely men, which is relevant.

A Novel Predicament

The establishment was a bar and eatery doing a roaring trade. A wasted afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Good food, fine libations and surprisingly humorous anecdotes about oral health. As expected, the moment dawned for visits to the gents. Those who departed, I half-noticed, seemed to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it came to me next, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line recognised.

A Sample of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any lady here. I am obviously cognizant that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a convenience is standard practice. How many times have I witnessed women queuing in a row while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

In addition to the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a hint of embarrassment about lingering there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was decidedly bracing to have a sample of it myself, watching the women glide through the portal while I was forced to stand solemnly in queue with my fellow fellas, angling away at something we had in our pockets and checking our mobile devices.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little experience. Females, I surmise, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, sharing pleasantries and an notable comment or two.

On this I’ve polled some female friends of my circle. The general agreement is that within-the-line communication is limited to the odd eye roll and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague told me it’s only at the hand-washing stations later that conversation tends to break out.

Had I been a lady, I’d waste no time on either pleasantries or quiet. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to queue in a shared procession merely for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the utter inequity of it. A useful benchmark for any modern community would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for studies on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Line

During my time in my line, I tried to spark some brotherly banter going about this new circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and said something like: “So, this represents an unpleasant change, doesn’t it lads?”

Someone chuckled, someone else appeared confused, a other man seemed awkward. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was a further symptom of modern woes, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, stillness reigned. A man emerged, fastening his trousers. The queue moved forward a spot. Another two men entered the back of it. I sighed.

A Silent Exchange

A female emerged out of the next-door toilet, all fragrant and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled bashfully at her, endeavouring to communicate an understanding of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve done this a hundred more times and then I may give you the time.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She didn’t say anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I truly wouldn’t censure her.