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Shortly before the holidays, I had an unusual episode. I believe it proved instructive. This occurred at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be tooth doctors, but this isn't relevant. The assembled crowd were all blokes, which turns out to be key.

A Novel Predicament

The venue was a bar and eatery doing a excellent custom. A wasted afternoon was shared by the group. Good cuisine, good libations and surprisingly humorous anecdotes about oral health. Naturally, the time came for excursions to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, seemed to be away a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it became my turn, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the female facilities, but a great long one for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

An Experience of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely aware that, for women, having to queue to use a convenience is the norm. On countless occasions have I witnessed women waiting in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the hassle of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a tinge of indignity about lingering there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was decidedly bracing to get a taste of it myself, seeing the women breeze through the door while I was forced to wait patiently in queue with my companions, angling away at something we had in our pockets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a whole conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant familiarity. Women, I presume, have become adept to be rather good at it, exchanging small talk and an notable observation or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my circle. The general agreement is that within-the-line communication is restricted to the rare exasperated look and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague informed me it’s merely at the sinks afterwards that conversation tends to begin.

Were I a female, I’d not spend a moment on either niceties or reticence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to wait in a shared procession simply for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the pure inequity of it. A useful measure for any modern culture would be balanced access in toilet queue durations. I’m looking for research on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Line

During my time in my queue, I endeavoured to spark some friendly chat going about this unprecedented situation of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something to the effect of: “Ah, this is an disagreeable variation, isn't it chaps?”

One person chuckled, another seemed nonplussed, a third looked sheepish. Another shook his head as if this was one more manifestation of a failing society, cultural decline etc. For the most part, silence reigned. An individual emerged, fastening his trousers. The line shuffled up a spot. Two more men joined the rear of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Interaction

A woman wafted out of the neighbouring toilet, all fragrant and relaxed. It was all right for some. I beamed bashfully at her, trying to communicate acknowledgement of this reversed scenario. She said: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you jerk. Come back when you’ve endured this another hundred times and at that point I might give you the time of day.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She didn’t say anything. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I truly could not fault her.