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Shortly before Christmas, I encountered an unusual episode. I believe it proved instructive. This happened at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dental professionals, but that’s not important. The assembled crowd were exclusively male, which is relevant.

A Strange Predicament

The establishment was a pub/restaurant experiencing a excellent custom. A forgotten daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Nice fare, good drink and unexpectedly amusing anecdotes about dentistry. Inevitably, the moment dawned for trips to the gents. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, seemed to be absent a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this was, but when it came to my turn, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue recognised.

An Experience of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any female reader here. I am acutely aware that, for women, needing to line up to use a restroom is standard practice. How many times have I observed women waiting in a row while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the hassle of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a hint of humiliation about lingering there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was profoundly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, watching the other sex walk straight through the door while I was obliged to wait patiently with others with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at something we had in our jackets and checking our handsets.

The Genre of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a complete form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant knowledge. Women, I surmise, have learned to be rather good at it, exchanging small talk and an engaging observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that queue-based interaction is limited to the occasional eye roll and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate told me it’s exclusively at the sinks afterwards that chat tends to break out.

Had I been a female, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or reticence. If I was forced, time and again, to wait in a shared procession simply for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like crazy at the utter inequity of it. A handy measure for any civilised community would be equal waiting times in wee waiting times. I’m looking for data on this.

Comradely Banter in the Queue

During my time in my wait, I attempted to spark some brotherly banter started about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and said something along the lines of: “Well, this is an disagreeable variation, right lads?”

A fellow smiled, another seemed nonplussed, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Yet another shook his head as if this was a further symptom of modern woes, political correctness etc. Aside from that, quiet reigned. An individual came out, adjusting his clothing. The queue moved forward a spot. Two more men joined the end of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Exchange

A female glided out of the next-door restroom, all clean and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I smiled apologetically at her, endeavouring to convey acknowledgement of this upside-down state of affairs. She remarked: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve done this another hundred times and only then I might give you the time.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She uttered anything. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I truly wouldn’t blame her.