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Just before Christmas, I had an unusual situation. I think it proved instructive. This happened at a get-together of some old friends, who happen to be tooth doctors, but this isn't relevant. The present group were solely men, which is significant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The establishment was a tavern doing a brisk business. A lost daytime was had by all. Nice fare, good beverages and surprisingly humorous stories about teeth. Inevitably, the point came for excursions to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, appeared to be away a significant period. I didn't contemplate why this could be, but when it became my turn, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a great long one for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

An Experience of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect empathy from any lady here. I am acutely aware that, for women, having to queue to use a public toilet is the norm. How many times have I witnessed women waiting in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Beyond the hassle of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of indignity about lingering there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, observing the opposite gender breeze through the door while I was obliged to wait patiently with others with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at anything we had in our jackets and consulting our handsets.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a whole conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant knowledge. Ladies, I surmise, have learned to be quite proficient at it, sharing polite remarks and an engaging insight or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some women of my circle. The general agreement is that within-the-line dialogue is restricted to the occasional weary glance and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate informed me it’s only at the washbasins afterwards that conversation tends to break out.

Were I a lady, I’d waste no time on either niceties or quiet. If I was compelled, time and again, to wait in a shared procession only for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the utter injustice of it. A valuable measure for any modern community would be balanced access in wee queue durations. I’m seeking out data on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Queue

Returning to my line, I endeavoured to get some brotherly banter flowing about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something along the lines of: “So, this makes an unpleasant change, right lads?”

A fellow grinned, a second seemed nonplussed, a third appeared embarrassed. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more symptom of a failing society, political correctness etc. For the most part, silence ensued. A man emerged, fastening his trousers. The queue moved forward a spot. Another two men took a place at the back of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Moment

A lady glided out of the adjacent restroom, all clean and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, trying to communicate an understanding of this upside-down situation. Her response was: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and only then I might give you the time.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She said nothing. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I honestly wouldn’t blame her.