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Just before the festive season, I had an unusual situation. I think it did me good. This happened at a get-together of some old friends, who are incidentally dental professionals, but that’s not important. The assembled group were exclusively male, which turns out to be relevant.

A Strange Predicament

The location was a tavern experiencing a excellent custom. A lost daytime was shared by the group. Fine food, nice beverages and unexpectedly entertaining tales about dentistry. Naturally, the point arrived for excursions to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, looked to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it became my go, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue recognised.

A Sample of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any lady here. I am acutely conscious that, for females, being forced to wait to use a convenience is the norm. How many times have I witnessed women waiting in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Beyond the inconvenience of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a hint of humiliation about lingering there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was truly bracing to get a taste of it myself, watching the women breeze through the door while I was obliged to wait patiently in line with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at something we had in our pockets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little knowledge. Ladies, I imagine, have become adept to be rather good at it, engaging in small talk and an interesting comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my circle. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is restricted to the odd eye roll and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague mentioned it’s merely at the hand-washing stations subsequently that chat tends to start up.

Had I been a woman, I’d not spend a moment on both pleasantries or reticence. If I was obliged, over and over, to queue in a public line simply for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the pure unfairness of it. A useful metric for any advanced community would be balanced access in urination queue durations. I’m researching research on this.

Male Chat in the Queue

During my time in my wait, I attempted to spark some male camaraderie started about this new circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something like: “So, this is an disagreeable difference, isn't it chaps?”

A fellow smiled, someone else looked blank, a other man seemed awkward. Yet another shook his head as if this was yet another manifestation of a failing society, woke madness etc. For the most part, quiet reigned. Someone came out, fastening his trousers. The group shuffled up a position. A couple more men joined the rear of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Exchange

A female emerged out of the neighbouring toilet, all fresh and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, trying to convey recognition of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She said: “Don’t look to me for support, you jerk. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and only then I could give you the time of day.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She said anything. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I truly would not blame her.