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Shortly before the festive season, I had an extraordinary incident. I feel it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a get-together of some old friends, who are incidentally dentists, but this isn't pertinent. The present crowd were all blokes, which is significant.

A Strange Predicament

The location was a tavern experiencing a excellent custom. A lost afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Good cuisine, nice libations and remarkably amusing stories about teeth. As expected, the time arrived for trips to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, seemed 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.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue recognised.

A Taste of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any lady here. I am acutely conscious that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a restroom is standard practice. How many times have I seen women standing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Apart from the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of indignity about lingering there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was profoundly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, observing the opposite gender breeze through the entrance while I was compelled to line up dutifully in line with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Art of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a entire conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal knowledge. Females, I presume, have developed skills to be rather good at it, exchanging pleasantries and an notable comment or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that intra-queue interaction is confined to the odd eye roll and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate informed me it’s only at the hand-washing stations later that chat tends to begin.

Had I been a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both niceties or reticence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to queue in a shared procession simply for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the pure inequity of it. A valuable metric for any civilised culture would be balanced access in wee waiting times. I’m looking for research on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Procession

Back in my line, I endeavoured to spark some friendly chat going about this unprecedented situation of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and said something along the lines of: “Ah, this makes an unpleasant change, doesn’t it boys?”

Someone smiled, another seemed nonplussed, a other man seemed awkward. Another rolled his eyes as if this was one more symptom of modern woes, cultural decline etc. For the most part, stillness prevailed. Someone came out, adjusting his clothing. The group advanced a position. Two more men joined the end of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Exchange

A lady glided out of the neighbouring facility, all fragrant and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I beamed apologetically at her, trying to communicate an understanding of this reversed scenario. She said: “Don't come to me for support, you jerk. Come back when you’ve endured this another hundred times and at that point I may give you the time.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She said a word. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I truly could not blame her.