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In the run-up to the holidays, I experienced an unusual incident. I think it proved instructive. This took place at a gathering of some old friends, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but this isn't pertinent. The present crowd were exclusively male, which is significant.

A Strange Situation

The location was a bar and eatery experiencing a brisk business. A forgotten daytime was had by all. Nice fare, nice beverages and surprisingly humorous anecdotes about teeth. Inevitably, the point came for visits to the gents. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, seemed to be absent a long time. I didn't contemplate why this might have been, but when it became my turn, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Sample of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any lady here. I am obviously conscious that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I seen women queuing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Apart from the hassle of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a hint of indignity about standing there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was profoundly bracing to have a sample of it myself, watching the women glide through the entrance while I was compelled to wait patiently in queue with my fellow fellas, angling away at something we had in our trouser pockets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a entire form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant familiarity. Women, I imagine, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, sharing small talk and an interesting insight or two.

On this I’ve polled some women of my knowledge. The consensus is that queue-based communication is restricted to the rare weary glance and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate mentioned it’s exclusively at the sinks afterwards that conversation tends to break out.

Were I a female, I’d waste no time on both pleasantries or quiet. If I was forced, over and over, to queue in a shared procession merely for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the pure unfairness of it. A useful metric for any advanced society would be balanced access in wee queue durations. I’m researching research on this.

Male Chat in the Queue

During my time in my line, I tried to get some male camaraderie going about this new state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something along the lines of: “Well, this makes an unpleasant variation, isn't it lads?”

One person chuckled, a second seemed nonplussed, a third appeared embarrassed. Another shook his head as if this was a further manifestation of a failing society, political correctness etc. For the most part, quiet reigned. An individual exited, fastening his trousers. The line shuffled up a position. Another two men entered the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Moment

A woman glided out of the neighbouring facility, all clean and at ease. It was all right for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, attempting to express acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you blighter. Come back when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and then I could give you the time of day.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She said anything. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I really wouldn’t blame her.