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Shortly before the holidays, I experienced an unusual episode. I think it did me good. This happened at a gathering of some old friends, who happen to be dentists, but that’s not relevant. The present party were exclusively male, which proves to be key.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The location was a pub/restaurant doing a brisk business. A forgotten afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Fine cuisine, good drink and remarkably entertaining stories about oral health. As expected, the moment arrived for visits to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, seemed to be away a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this might have been, 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 ladies' room, but a great long one for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

An Experience of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for empathy from any lady here. I am acutely cognizant that, for females, having to queue to use a convenience is standard practice. Repeatedly have I seen women standing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the annoyance of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of humiliation about standing there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was truly bracing to get a taste of it myself, seeing the other sex glide through the portal while I was compelled to line up dutifully with others with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at anything we had in our jackets and checking our handsets.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal knowledge. Ladies, I presume, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, engaging in polite remarks and an notable insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some women of my knowledge. The consensus is that queue-based interaction is restricted to the rare weary glance and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate told me it’s only at the washbasins subsequently that discussion tends to break out.

Had I been a lady, I’d waste no time on both niceties or reticence. If I was obliged, time and again, to queue in a public line simply for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the sheer unfairness of it. A useful measure for any civilised community would be gender parity in toilet lining-up periods. I’m looking for studies on this.

Comradely Chat in the Queue

Back in my line, I attempted to get some male camaraderie started about this novel state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and said something along the lines of: “Well, this is an unpleasant variation, isn't it boys?”

One person smiled, another seemed nonplussed, a third seemed awkward. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further symptom of modern woes, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, silence reigned. Someone exited, fastening his trousers. The queue moved forward a position. A couple more men joined the back of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Exchange

A woman emerged out of the next-door restroom, all fresh and at ease. It was all right for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, attempting to express acknowledgement of this upside-down situation. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve done this on a regular basis and only then I might give you the time.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She uttered anything. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I truly would not blame her.