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Shortly before the holidays, I encountered an remarkable episode. I believe it did me good. This happened at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but this isn't important. The assembled group were solely men, which turns out to be key.

A Strange Scenario

The venue was a pub/restaurant enjoying a brisk business. A forgotten session was enjoyed by everyone. Good cuisine, nice libations and remarkably amusing tales about teeth. Naturally, the time arrived for trips to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, looked to be absent a long time. I didn't contemplate why this might have been, but when it came to my turn, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line were accustomed to.

An Experience of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any female reader here. I am acutely aware that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I witnessed women standing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Apart from the hassle of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about standing there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly sobering to get a taste of it myself, observing the other sex glide through the portal while I was forced to line up dutifully with others with my companions, angling away at whatever we had in our jackets and scrolling through our phones.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a entire form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant knowledge. Women, I imagine, have developed skills to be rather good at it, engaging in pleasantries and an interesting insight or two.

On this I’ve consulted some female friends of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that queue-based dialogue is confined to the occasional weary glance and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague informed me it’s only at the sinks later that chat tends to start up.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on either niceties or reticence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to wait in a shared procession simply for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the sheer inequity of it. A useful measure for any civilised community would be balanced access in toilet lining-up periods. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Male Chat in the Procession

During my time in my queue, I endeavoured to spark some brotherly banter started about this novel situation of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something to the effect of: “So, this makes an unpleasant change, doesn’t it chaps?”

A fellow smiled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third individual seemed awkward. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was one more symptom of modern woes, cultural decline etc. For the most part, quiet reigned. Someone emerged, adjusting his clothing. The line shuffled up a spot. A couple more men entered the end of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Exchange

A woman wafted out of the neighbouring restroom, all clean and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned bashfully at her, endeavouring to express acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy scenario. She remarked: “Don't come to me for support, you bastard. Come back when you’ve done this a hundred more times and at that point I might give you the time.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She uttered a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly could not blame her.