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Shortly before the festive season, I had an extraordinary incident. I think it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be tooth doctors, but it's not important. The present crowd were solely men, which proves to be significant.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The location was a pub/restaurant experiencing a brisk business. A forgotten session was shared by the group. Fine cuisine, fine beverages and surprisingly humorous stories about oral health. Naturally, the point arrived for excursions to the male facilities. Those who went, I partially registered, seemed to be away a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this might have been, but when it was me next, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue recognised.

A Sample of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any woman here. I am obviously cognizant that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a restroom is standard practice. On countless occasions have I seen women queuing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Beyond the annoyance of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a hint of humiliation about waiting there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was profoundly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, observing the other sex breeze through the entrance while I was compelled to stand solemnly in line with my fellow fellas, fiddling at whatever we had in our pockets and checking our handsets.

The Genre of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant familiarity. Females, I surmise, have become adept to be rather good at it, exchanging polite remarks and an notable comment or two.

On this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The general agreement is that queue-based communication is confined to the odd weary glance and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate informed me it’s only at the sinks later that conversation tends to break out.

Had I been a female, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or reticence. If I was compelled, time and again, to stand in a shared procession merely for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the utter injustice of it. A handy measure for any civilised community would be gender parity in wee waiting times. I’m seeking out research on this.

Comradely Chat in the Procession

Returning to my queue, I tried to spark some friendly chat going about this new situation of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and said something to the effect of: “Well, this represents an unpleasant difference, right boys?”

One person chuckled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a other man appeared embarrassed. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more symptom of modern woes, political correctness etc. For the most part, silence reigned. An individual emerged, zipping up. The queue advanced a position. A couple more men took a place at the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Interaction

A woman wafted out of the adjacent toilet, all fresh and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, endeavouring to express acknowledgement of this upside-down situation. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you blighter. Come back when you’ve endured this another hundred times and then I could give you the time.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say nothing. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I really could not censure her.