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In the run-up to Christmas, I experienced an unusual incident. I think it did me good. This happened at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but that’s not important. The attending crowd were exclusively male, which proves to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The venue was a tavern doing a excellent custom. A wasted afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Fine food, fine libations and unexpectedly amusing stories about oral health. As expected, the time dawned for visits to the male facilities. Those who departed, I partially registered, looked to be absent a significant period. I didn't contemplate why this might have been, but when it came to my go, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue recognised.

A Taste of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect pity from any lady here. I am acutely cognizant that, for women, being forced to wait to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I witnessed women waiting in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the annoyance of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about standing there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was decidedly sobering to have a sample of it myself, watching the opposite gender walk straight through the door while I was forced to wait patiently in queue with my companions, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our jackets and checking our mobile devices.

The Art of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a complete conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant experience. Females, I presume, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging polite remarks and an engaging insight or two.

On this I’ve polled some female friends of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that within-the-line communication is confined to the odd exasperated look and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate informed me it’s exclusively at the sinks subsequently that chat tends to begin.

Had I been a lady, I’d refrain from on either small talk or quiet. If I was compelled, time and again, to stand in a public line merely for the chance to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the sheer unfairness of it. A handy measure for any civilised community would be gender parity in urination lining-up periods. I’m seeking out data on this.

Comradely Banter in the Queue

Returning to my line, I tried to spark some friendly chat flowing about this novel situation of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something like: “Ah, this makes an unpleasant variation, isn't it chaps?”

Someone smiled, another looked blank, a third individual looked sheepish. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was a further example of a failing society, political correctness etc. Otherwise, stillness ensued. A man exited, fastening his trousers. The group moved forward a place. A couple more men took a place at the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Exchange

A female wafted out of the next-door facility, all fresh and unhurried. It was all right for some. I grinned bashfully at her, endeavouring to communicate acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She said: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you blighter. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and at that point I could give you the time of day.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She uttered nothing. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I truly could not fault her.