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Just before the festive season, I had an unusual incident. I believe it was beneficial for me. This took place at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but that’s not relevant. The attending party were solely men, which turns out to be key.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The venue was a tavern doing a roaring trade. A lost session was enjoyed by everyone. Good fare, fine libations and remarkably amusing anecdotes about teeth. Inevitably, the moment dawned for trips to the men's room. Those who went, I half-noticed, looked to be absent a long time. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it became my go, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering knew.

A Taste of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely conscious that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is the norm. Repeatedly have I observed women queuing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Apart from the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about standing there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was truly sobering to get a taste of it myself, seeing the other sex walk straight through the portal while I was compelled to stand solemnly in queue with my companions, looking distractedly at something we had in our jackets and consulting our phones.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant experience. Women, I surmise, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, engaging in small talk and an engaging observation or two.

On this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The general agreement is that within-the-line communication is restricted to the rare eye roll and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate informed me it’s only at the hand-washing stations afterwards that chat tends to begin.

If I was a lady, I’d not spend a moment on either niceties or silence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to stand in a shared procession simply for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the utter inequity of it. A useful metric for any advanced society would be equal waiting times in urination lining-up periods. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Male Banter in the Line

During my time in my wait, I endeavoured to initiate some male camaraderie flowing about this novel state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something along the lines of: “Well, this makes an disagreeable variation, isn't it boys?”

One person chuckled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Another shook his head as if this was yet another symptom of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, quiet ensued. Someone emerged, adjusting his clothing. The queue shuffled up a spot. A couple more men entered the rear of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Interaction

A female glided out of the next-door facility, all clean and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, endeavouring to communicate recognition of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She said: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you bastard. Return when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and at that point I might give you the time.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say a word. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I really wouldn’t blame her.