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Shortly before the festive season, I experienced an remarkable situation. I believe it was beneficial for me. This happened at a gathering of some old friends, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The assembled crowd were solely men, which proves to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The venue was a tavern enjoying a brisk business. A lost daytime was shared by the group. Fine food, good drink and remarkably entertaining tales about oral health. Inevitably, the moment arrived for trips to the gents. Those who departed, I partially registered, seemed to be away a considerable while. I didn't ponder the reason this might have been, but when it was my go, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue recognised.

A Taste of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any lady here. I am fully aware that, for females, having to queue to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I observed women queuing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

In addition to the hassle of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of humiliation about standing there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was profoundly sobering to have a sample of it myself, observing the women breeze through the portal while I was compelled to stand solemnly with others with my mates, looking distractedly at anything we had in our pockets and consulting our phones.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal familiarity. Women, I surmise, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, sharing pleasantries and an engaging observation or two.

On this I’ve polled some female friends of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is limited to the odd eye roll and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague mentioned it’s merely at the washbasins subsequently that conversation tends to break out.

Were I a female, I’d waste no time on either pleasantries or quiet. If I was compelled, time and again, to queue in a public line only for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the pure unfairness of it. A valuable metric for any modern society would be equal waiting times in urination queue durations. I’m seeking out data on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Procession

Back in my queue, I tried to spark some brotherly banter flowing about this novel state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something along the lines of: “So, this makes an unpleasant change, isn't it chaps?”

One person chuckled, a second seemed nonplussed, a third looked sheepish. A further person shook his head as if this was one more symptom of modern woes, woke madness etc. Aside from that, stillness reigned. Someone exited, adjusting his clothing. The line shuffled up a place. A couple more men joined the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Interaction

A woman glided out of the next-door facility, all fresh and unhurried. It was all right for some. I grinned apologetically at her, attempting to convey acknowledgement of this upside-down situation. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and only then I may give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She didn’t say nothing. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I truly would not fault her.