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In the run-up to the holidays, I encountered an remarkable incident. I feel it was beneficial for me. This happened at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dentists, but this isn't important. The assembled party were exclusively male, which is relevant.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The venue was a bar and eatery enjoying a brisk business. A forgotten session was enjoyed by everyone. Fine cuisine, fine beverages and remarkably humorous stories about oral health. As expected, the time dawned for excursions to the men's room. Those who went, I vaguely observed, appeared to be away a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it came to my go, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line knew.

A Taste of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any female reader here. I am obviously cognizant that, for women, being forced to wait to use a restroom is standard practice. Repeatedly have I witnessed women waiting in a line while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the hassle of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about waiting there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, watching the women breeze through the entrance while I was obliged to line up dutifully in line with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our pockets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant experience. Women, I imagine, have learned to be rather good at it, exchanging pleasantries and an engaging observation or two.

On this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The consensus is that within-the-line interaction is limited to the odd eye roll and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate mentioned it’s exclusively at the washbasins later that discussion tends to break out.

If I was a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both niceties or quiet. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to wait in a common queue merely for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the pure inequity of it. A useful metric for any civilised community would be equal waiting times in toilet waiting times. I’m looking for studies on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Queue

Returning to my wait, I endeavoured to initiate some friendly chat going about this new circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and said something like: “So, this represents an disagreeable change, right chaps?”

Someone grinned, another seemed nonplussed, a third appeared embarrassed. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more symptom of a failing society, cultural decline etc. For the most part, quiet reigned. Someone came out, fastening his trousers. The line shuffled up a place. Another two men took a place at the back of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Interaction

A woman glided out of the neighbouring toilet, all clean and relaxed. It was all right for some. I beamed apologetically at her, endeavouring to express an understanding of this upside-down scenario. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you jerk. Come back when you’ve done this on a regular basis and only then I may give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She uttered a word. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I really wouldn’t blame her.