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Shortly before the festive season, I encountered an extraordinary incident. I think it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dentists, but that’s not important. The attending party were exclusively male, which is key.

A Strange Predicament

The venue was a bar and eatery doing a roaring trade. A lost session was shared by the group. Nice food, nice beverages and surprisingly entertaining tales about teeth. Naturally, the moment arrived for visits to the men's room. Those who departed, I partially registered, seemed to be absent a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on why this might have been, but when it came to me next, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line recognised.

A Taste of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any woman here. I am obviously aware that, for females, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is standard practice. Repeatedly have I observed women queuing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the hassle of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of indignity about standing there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was truly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the other sex glide through the door while I was obliged to stand solemnly with others with my mates, angling away at whatever we had in our pockets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little experience. Females, I surmise, have become adept to be rather good at it, exchanging polite remarks and an notable insight or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some female friends of my knowledge. The general agreement is that within-the-line interaction is restricted to the rare exasperated look and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague mentioned it’s only at the sinks afterwards that discussion tends to start up.

Were I a female, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or reticence. If I was obliged, time and again, to queue in a public line merely for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the utter inequity of it. A useful measure for any advanced society would be balanced access in wee queue durations. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Male Banter in the Procession

Returning to my wait, I tried to spark some male camaraderie going about this new situation of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something like: “So, this makes an irksome change, doesn’t it chaps?”

Someone grinned, another seemed nonplussed, a third individual looked sheepish. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further symptom of a failing society, woke madness etc. Otherwise, stillness prevailed. A man exited, adjusting his clothing. The line advanced a position. Two more men joined the rear of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Interaction

A lady glided out of the next-door restroom, all fragrant and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I smiled apologetically at her, trying to communicate an understanding of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you blighter. Return when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and at that point I may give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She said a word. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I truly could not blame her.