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Just before Christmas, I encountered an remarkable situation. I feel it did me good. This happened at a meeting of some old friends, who happen to be tooth doctors, but it's not pertinent. The assembled crowd were all blokes, which is key.

A Novel Predicament

The venue was a tavern enjoying a brisk business. A forgotten daytime was shared by the group. Good fare, good beverages and unexpectedly amusing anecdotes about dentistry. Inevitably, the moment came for trips to the gents. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, seemed to be away a significant period. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it was me next, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a great long one for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Taste of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any lady here. I am obviously aware that, for females, needing to line up to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I seen women queuing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Apart from the annoyance of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of humiliation about standing there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was profoundly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, observing the women breeze through the door while I was compelled to line up dutifully with others with my mates, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a whole form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little knowledge. Ladies, I surmise, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging pleasantries and an interesting insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some women of my knowledge. The consensus is that intra-queue communication is confined to the occasional eye roll and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate informed me it’s exclusively at the washbasins later that chat tends to start up.

If I was a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both pleasantries or silence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to queue in a common queue simply for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the sheer unfairness of it. A handy measure for any modern community would be gender parity in urination waiting times. I’m looking for data on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Queue

During my time in my line, I tried to get some brotherly banter flowing about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something to the effect of: “Well, this represents an unpleasant difference, right chaps?”

A fellow smiled, another seemed nonplussed, a third individual looked sheepish. A further person shook his head as if this was a further symptom of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, quiet ensued. A man exited, adjusting his clothing. The line advanced a spot. A couple more men joined the rear of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Moment

A woman glided out of the adjacent toilet, all clean and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled apologetically at her, attempting to communicate recognition of this upside-down state of affairs. She said: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you blighter. Come back when you’ve done this a hundred more times and at that point I could give you the time of day.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I truly could not blame her.