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Just before the festive season, I had an extraordinary episode. I feel it proved instructive. This happened at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dentists, but this isn't relevant. The present group were exclusively male, which proves to be relevant.

A Novel Situation

The establishment was a pub/restaurant experiencing a brisk business. A forgotten daytime was shared by the group. Nice cuisine, fine beverages and remarkably amusing tales about oral health. As expected, the moment came for trips to the men's room. Those who went, I vaguely observed, appeared to be away a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this was, but when it came to me next, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. An empty space for the female facilities, but a great long one for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line were accustomed to.

A Sample of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any woman here. I am fully conscious that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a restroom is the norm. How many times have I observed women waiting in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the hassle of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a hint of indignity about lingering there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was truly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, observing the opposite gender breeze through the portal while I was compelled to stand solemnly in line with my companions, fiddling at anything we had in our jackets and scrolling through our phones.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a whole form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal knowledge. Women, I imagine, have learned to be quite proficient at it, engaging in pleasantries and an engaging insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that intra-queue communication is restricted to the odd exasperated look and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate told me it’s exclusively at the sinks later that discussion tends to start up.

Had I been a woman, I’d refrain from on both small talk or reticence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to wait in a shared procession merely for the chance to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like crazy at the pure injustice of it. A useful benchmark for any modern community would be balanced access in wee queue durations. I’m looking for studies on this.

Comradely Banter in the Procession

Back in my wait, I attempted to initiate some male camaraderie going about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something to the effect of: “So, this is an disagreeable change, isn't it lads?”

Someone grinned, a second appeared confused, a third looked sheepish. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further example of modern woes, woke madness etc. For the most part, silence prevailed. A man exited, zipping up. The queue shuffled up a place. Another two men joined the rear of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Moment

A lady glided out of the adjacent toilet, all fragrant and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, endeavouring to express acknowledgement of this upside-down situation. Her response was: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you jerk. Return when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and only then I might give you the time of day.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She uttered anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly would not blame her.