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Shortly before the festive season, I had an unusual episode. I think it did me good. This happened at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but it's not relevant. The attending group were all blokes, which turns out to be relevant.

A Novel Predicament

The location was a tavern doing a excellent custom. A forgotten daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Nice fare, nice libations and unexpectedly humorous anecdotes about dentistry. Inevitably, the time dawned for trips to the male facilities. Those who departed, I half-noticed, looked to be away a long time. I didn’t dwell on why this was, but when it came to my turn, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me 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 gathering recognised.

A Taste of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for pity from any lady here. I am obviously conscious that, for women, having to queue to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I seen women queuing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Apart from the annoyance of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about standing there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was truly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, watching the women glide through the portal while I was obliged to line up dutifully with others with my fellow fellas, angling away at anything we had in our pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little familiarity. Females, I imagine, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, sharing small talk and an interesting comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some women of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that queue-based interaction is confined to the rare exasperated look and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague mentioned it’s exclusively at the washbasins afterwards that conversation tends to break out.

Were I a woman, I’d refrain from on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was obliged, time and again, to wait in a public line merely for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the utter unfairness of it. A useful metric for any advanced culture would be gender parity in urination lining-up periods. I’m looking for research on this.

Male Banter in the Queue

Returning to my line, I tried to spark some brotherly banter going about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something along the lines of: “So, this makes an disagreeable variation, isn't it boys?”

A fellow chuckled, another appeared confused, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Another shook his head as if this was one more example of modern woes, political correctness etc. For the most part, stillness ensued. A man came out, fastening his trousers. The line moved forward a place. Two more men joined the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Exchange

A female emerged out of the next-door toilet, all clean and relaxed. It was all right for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, endeavouring to communicate an understanding of this reversed state of affairs. She said: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve done this a hundred more times and at that point I could give you the time of day.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She uttered anything. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I really wouldn’t blame her.