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In the run-up to the holidays, I encountered an unusual episode. I believe it was beneficial for me. This took place at a gathering of several mates, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but it's not relevant. The attending crowd were all blokes, which turns out to be key.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The venue was a pub/restaurant doing a excellent custom. A lost afternoon was had by all. Fine fare, fine drink and remarkably humorous anecdotes about teeth. Inevitably, the moment arrived for excursions to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, looked to be away a significant period. I didn't contemplate the reason this was, but when it came to me next, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a great long one for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line were accustomed to.

A Sample of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for empathy from any lady here. I am obviously conscious that, for females, having to queue to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I observed women queuing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Apart from the inconvenience of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a whiff of indignity about waiting there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was decidedly bracing to get a taste of it myself, watching the opposite gender breeze through the entrance while I was obliged to stand solemnly with others with my fellow fellas, angling away at anything we had in our pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a whole form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant knowledge. Women, I imagine, have learned to be quite proficient at it, exchanging pleasantries and an notable observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my circle. The general agreement is that intra-queue interaction is limited to the odd weary glance and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate informed me it’s merely at the sinks later that discussion tends to start up.

Had I been a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either niceties or quiet. If I was forced, time and again, to queue in a public line simply for the chance to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the sheer injustice of it. A useful measure for any advanced community would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for research on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Procession

Back in my line, I endeavoured to initiate some friendly chat flowing about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something to the effect of: “Well, this represents an irksome change, isn't it chaps?”

A fellow smiled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third appeared embarrassed. Yet another shook his head as if this was yet another example of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, quiet ensued. An individual exited, zipping up. The queue advanced a place. A couple more men entered the back of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Interaction

A woman emerged out of the neighbouring facility, all clean and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed bashfully at her, attempting to convey acknowledgement of this reversed state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for support, you blighter. Come back when you’ve done this a hundred more times and only then I might give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I honestly would not censure her.