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In the run-up to the holidays, I had an remarkable incident. I believe it did me good. This happened at a meeting of several mates, who are, as it happens dentists, but it's not important. The assembled group were solely men, which turns out to be relevant.

A Novel Scenario

The venue was a pub/restaurant doing a roaring trade. A wasted session was enjoyed by everyone. Nice food, good libations and unexpectedly entertaining anecdotes about teeth. As expected, the time arrived for trips to the male facilities. Those who went, I vaguely observed, seemed to be absent a considerable while. I didn't ponder the reason this was, but when it became my turn, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a long queue for the men's restroom. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering knew.

An Experience of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for empathy from any female reader here. I am acutely cognizant that, for women, having to queue to use a convenience is standard practice. Repeatedly have I observed women queuing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Apart from the hassle of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a hint of embarrassment about waiting there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was profoundly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the other sex breeze through the portal while I was compelled to wait patiently with others with my fellow fellas, angling away at something we had in our jackets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant experience. Women, I presume, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging polite remarks and an interesting comment or two.

On this I’ve consulted some female friends of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is limited to the rare exasperated look and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate mentioned it’s exclusively at the sinks afterwards that chat tends to begin.

If I was a lady, I’d waste no time on either pleasantries or silence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to stand in a shared procession merely for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the pure inequity of it. A useful benchmark for any advanced culture would be gender parity in urination queue durations. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Procession

During my time in my queue, I attempted to get some friendly chat flowing about this novel circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and said something along the lines of: “So, this represents an disagreeable variation, right boys?”

Someone smiled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third individual looked sheepish. A further person shook his head as if this was a further manifestation of modern woes, woke madness etc. For the most part, quiet reigned. An individual came out, zipping up. The group advanced a position. A couple more men entered the back of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Exchange

A lady glided out of the neighbouring facility, all fresh and relaxed. It was all right for some. I smiled bashfully at her, attempting to convey acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy scenario. She said: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you bastard. Return when you’ve done this on a regular basis and at that point I could give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She uttered a word. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I really could not fault her.