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Shortly before the festive season, I experienced an remarkable episode. I think it was beneficial for me. This happened at a get-together of some old friends, who happen to be dental professionals, but it's not important. The attending group were all blokes, which turns out to be significant.

A Strange Predicament

The establishment was a tavern enjoying a roaring trade. A lost afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Fine fare, nice beverages and unexpectedly humorous anecdotes about teeth. Inevitably, the time dawned for excursions to the gents. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, appeared to be away a long time. I didn’t dwell on why this was, but when it came to me next, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Sample of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any female reader here. I am acutely cognizant that, for females, having to queue to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I observed women queuing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

In addition to the annoyance of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about waiting there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was decidedly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, watching the other sex breeze through the door while I was compelled to line up dutifully with others with my companions, fiddling at anything we had in our jackets and consulting our phones.

The Art of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a whole form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little experience. Women, I presume, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, sharing pleasantries and an interesting insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some women of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that within-the-line interaction is restricted to the occasional weary glance and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague informed me it’s exclusively at the washbasins afterwards that conversation tends to break out.

If I was a lady, I’d waste no time on both small talk or quiet. If I was forced, time and again, to stand in a shared procession only for the chance to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the utter unfairness of it. A handy benchmark for any civilised community would be gender parity in toilet lining-up periods. I’m seeking out research on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Line

During my time in my wait, I tried to spark some male camaraderie started about this novel situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something to the effect of: “Well, this makes an unpleasant variation, doesn’t it boys?”

A fellow grinned, another seemed nonplussed, a third seemed awkward. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more symptom of modern woes, woke madness etc. Aside from that, silence ensued. A man exited, adjusting his clothing. The line advanced a place. A couple more men joined the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Exchange

A female emerged out of the adjacent toilet, all fresh and unhurried. It was all right for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, endeavouring to express an understanding of this upside-down state of affairs. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve done this a hundred more times and then I could give you the time of day.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She uttered a word. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly could not censure her.