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Shortly before the holidays, I encountered an unusual incident. I believe it proved instructive. This took place at a get-together of some old friends, who happen to be tooth doctors, but that’s not important. The present party were solely men, which turns out to be significant.

A Novel Predicament

The venue was a tavern enjoying a roaring trade. A lost afternoon was had by all. Good fare, nice beverages and remarkably humorous anecdotes about dentistry. Naturally, the moment came for trips to the men's room. Those who went, I vaguely observed, seemed to be away a long time. I didn't ponder why this might have been, but when it was my go, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue knew.

An Experience of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any lady here. I am fully cognizant that, for ladies, having to queue to use a convenience is the norm. Repeatedly have I observed women standing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about waiting there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was profoundly bracing to have a sample of it myself, watching the other sex glide through the entrance while I was forced to line up dutifully with others with my mates, looking distractedly at anything we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Art of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a whole form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal experience. Women, I surmise, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, engaging in polite remarks and an notable insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some women of my circle. The consensus is that intra-queue communication is limited to the rare weary glance and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague told me it’s exclusively at the sinks afterwards that discussion tends to begin.

Were I a lady, I’d refrain from on both small talk or reticence. If I was compelled, over and over, to queue in a common queue simply for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the pure injustice of it. A valuable metric for any civilised society would be balanced access in toilet queue durations. I’m seeking out data on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Procession

During my time in my wait, I endeavoured to spark some male camaraderie flowing about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something to the effect of: “Ah, this makes an disagreeable variation, right lads?”

Someone chuckled, a second looked blank, a other man seemed awkward. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more symptom of broken Britain, political correctness etc. For the most part, silence ensued. Someone exited, adjusting his clothing. The line shuffled up a position. A couple more men entered the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Interaction

A female glided out of the neighbouring restroom, all fresh and relaxed. It was all right for some. I smiled apologetically at her, trying to communicate recognition of this topsy-turvy scenario. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you blighter. Come back when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and at that point I might give you the time.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She uttered a word. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly would not fault her.