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In the run-up to Christmas, I encountered an unusual situation. I feel it did me good. This happened at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but this isn't pertinent. The present group were all blokes, which proves to be significant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The venue was a pub/restaurant enjoying a roaring trade. A lost session was enjoyed by everyone. Nice food, nice libations and unexpectedly humorous tales about oral health. Inevitably, the moment dawned for excursions to the male facilities. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, seemed to be away a considerable while. I didn't ponder the reason this might have been, but when it came to my go, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men's. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line were accustomed to.

A Sample of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for empathy from any lady here. I am acutely cognizant that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is standard practice. How many times have I witnessed women standing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the inconvenience of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of indignity about lingering there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was truly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, observing the other sex breeze through the portal while I was compelled to line up dutifully with others with my companions, angling away at something we had in our pockets and checking our mobile devices.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a entire form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little experience. Women, I imagine, have learned to be rather good at it, sharing polite remarks and an engaging insight or two.

On this I’ve asked some women of my knowledge. The consensus is that queue-based dialogue is confined to the occasional weary glance and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague mentioned it’s only at the hand-washing stations later that discussion tends to break out.

Had I been a female, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or silence. If I was obliged, over and over, to stand in a public line simply for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter injustice of it. A useful metric for any advanced society would be gender parity in toilet waiting times. I’m looking for research on this.

Comradely Banter in the Procession

Returning to my line, I tried to initiate some friendly chat going about this new situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and said something along the lines of: “So, this represents an irksome variation, right lads?”

One person smiled, another seemed nonplussed, a other man looked sheepish. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another manifestation of modern woes, woke madness etc. For the most part, stillness reigned. An individual came out, adjusting his clothing. The group moved forward a spot. Another two men entered the rear of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Interaction

A woman glided out of the neighbouring facility, all fresh and at ease. It was all right for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, endeavouring to communicate an understanding of this upside-down situation. She said: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you bastard. Come back when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and only then I may give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She uttered nothing. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly could not fault her.