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Just before the festive season, I experienced an extraordinary episode. I feel it proved instructive. This occurred at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The attending group were exclusively male, which proves to be significant.

A Novel Predicament

The venue was a pub/restaurant experiencing a excellent custom. A forgotten session was shared by the group. Fine food, fine drink and unexpectedly entertaining anecdotes about oral health. As expected, the time came for trips to the men's room. Those who went, I half-noticed, appeared to be gone a considerable while. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it became my turn, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Taste of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for sympathy from any female reader here. I am obviously cognizant that, for females, needing to line up to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Apart from the annoyance of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a tinge of indignity about standing there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was profoundly sobering to have a sample of it myself, observing the opposite gender glide through the entrance while I was obliged to line up dutifully in line with my companions, looking distractedly at something we had in our jackets and checking our phones.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a whole form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant knowledge. Ladies, I surmise, have developed skills to be rather good at it, sharing small talk and an engaging observation or two.

On this I’ve asked some women of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that intra-queue dialogue is restricted to the occasional exasperated look and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate mentioned it’s only at the washbasins later that chat tends to start up.

If I was a lady, I’d waste no time on either pleasantries or quiet. If I was obliged, time and again, to wait in a common queue simply for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like crazy at the pure inequity of it. A valuable metric for any civilised culture would be equal waiting times in wee queue durations. I’m looking for data on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Queue

During my time in my line, I endeavoured to initiate some male camaraderie flowing about this novel state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something along the lines of: “So, this is an unpleasant variation, right lads?”

Someone grinned, another looked blank, a third appeared embarrassed. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was a further symptom of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, stillness prevailed. Someone emerged, zipping up. The queue shuffled up a position. Two more men joined the end of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Interaction

A woman glided out of the next-door toilet, all fragrant and unhurried. It was all right for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, endeavouring to convey an understanding of this reversed situation. She said: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and only then I may give you the time of day.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She uttered anything. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I really wouldn’t censure her.