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Just before the festive season, I had an unusual situation. I believe it proved instructive. This happened at a gathering of several mates, who happen to be dental professionals, but it's not important. The attending crowd were all blokes, which proves to be key.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The location was a tavern experiencing a brisk business. A forgotten session was had by all. Fine food, fine beverages and unexpectedly entertaining stories about teeth. Inevitably, the point dawned for visits to the men's room. Those who went, I vaguely observed, appeared to be absent a long time. I didn’t dwell on why this was, but when it came to me next, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

An Experience of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect pity from any lady here. I am acutely cognizant that, for ladies, having to queue to use a convenience is the norm. Repeatedly have I witnessed women waiting in a line while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Apart from the inconvenience of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of indignity about standing there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was truly sobering to have a sample of it myself, observing the opposite gender breeze through the entrance while I was compelled to stand solemnly in line with my fellow fellas, fiddling at something we had in our pockets and checking our handsets.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a whole form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant experience. Ladies, I surmise, have learned to be rather good at it, exchanging polite remarks and an engaging observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some female friends of my circle. The prevailing view is that intra-queue interaction is confined to the occasional eye roll and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague told me it’s only at the hand-washing stations later that discussion tends to break out.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on either niceties or quiet. If I was obliged, time and again, to queue in a shared procession only for the chance to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter unfairness of it. A useful benchmark for any modern culture would be gender parity in wee lining-up periods. I’m researching data on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Line

During my time in my line, I endeavoured to get some male camaraderie flowing about this novel situation of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something like: “So, this makes an disagreeable variation, right chaps?”

Someone grinned, a second seemed nonplussed, a third seemed awkward. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another example of modern woes, political correctness etc. Aside from that, silence prevailed. An individual exited, zipping up. The group shuffled up a position. Two more men took a place at the back of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Exchange

A woman glided out of the next-door toilet, all fragrant and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I grinned apologetically at her, trying to convey acknowledgement of this reversed state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and then I could give you the time.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She said anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I truly would not fault her.