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Just before the festive season, I encountered an remarkable incident. I think it was beneficial for me. This happened at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dentists, but that’s not pertinent. The attending crowd were exclusively male, which is relevant.

A Novel Scenario

The establishment was a bar and eatery doing a excellent custom. A forgotten session was had by all. Good cuisine, nice beverages and remarkably entertaining anecdotes about oral health. Naturally, the time came for visits to the men's room. Those who departed, I partially registered, appeared to be absent a significant period. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it came to me next, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. 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 line knew.

A Taste of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for empathy from any woman here. I am obviously aware that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I seen women waiting in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Beyond the hassle of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of humiliation about waiting there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was profoundly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the women breeze through the door while I was forced to wait patiently in line with my companions, looking distractedly at anything we had in our jackets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a complete form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little experience. Women, I presume, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in small talk and an interesting observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some female friends of my circle. The prevailing view is that intra-queue communication is restricted to the rare weary glance and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague told me it’s merely at the sinks later that conversation tends to break out.

If I was a female, I’d not spend a moment on both pleasantries or reticence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to wait in a common queue only for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the sheer unfairness of it. A handy metric for any civilised society would be equal waiting times in toilet waiting times. I’m looking for studies on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Queue

Returning to my queue, I endeavoured to spark some brotherly banter started about this unprecedented situation of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something like: “So, this makes an unpleasant change, right chaps?”

Someone smiled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third individual seemed awkward. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was one more manifestation of a failing society, cultural decline etc. For the most part, silence prevailed. An individual emerged, fastening his trousers. The line shuffled up a position. Two more men entered the rear of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Moment

A woman wafted out of the adjacent facility, all fresh and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, endeavouring to convey recognition of this topsy-turvy scenario. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you jerk. Return when you’ve done this on a regular basis and then I may give you the time.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She uttered a word. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I really could not censure her.