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Shortly before Christmas, I encountered an remarkable incident. I think it did me good. This happened at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dentists, but this isn't relevant. The assembled party were all blokes, which proves to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The location was a tavern experiencing a excellent custom. A lost session was enjoyed by everyone. Nice food, fine libations and remarkably amusing stories about teeth. Naturally, the moment dawned for trips to the male facilities. Those who departed, I partially registered, looked to be gone a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it became me next, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue knew.

An Experience of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect pity from any lady here. I am fully cognizant that, for women, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is the norm. On countless occasions have I seen women standing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the inconvenience of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a hint of embarrassment about lingering there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, watching the women glide through the entrance while I was obliged to wait patiently in line with my fellow fellas, angling away at whatever we had in our jackets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Practice of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a entire form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant familiarity. Ladies, I imagine, have learned to be quite proficient at it, sharing polite remarks and an notable observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some female friends of my knowledge. The general agreement is that queue-based interaction is confined to the rare exasperated look and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate mentioned it’s merely at the sinks subsequently that conversation tends to start up.

Had I been a lady, I’d refrain from on either niceties or silence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to wait in a shared procession only for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the sheer unfairness of it. A valuable benchmark for any civilised community would be equal waiting times in toilet waiting times. I’m researching research on this.

Comradely Banter in the Queue

Returning to my wait, I tried to initiate some male camaraderie flowing about this novel situation of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and said something along the lines of: “Ah, this makes an disagreeable variation, isn't it boys?”

Someone grinned, a second looked blank, a other man looked sheepish. Another rolled his eyes as if this was a further example of a failing society, cultural decline etc. For the most part, quiet ensued. A man exited, adjusting his clothing. The group shuffled up a place. Two more men joined the end of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Exchange

A woman wafted out of the adjacent restroom, all clean and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned apologetically at her, attempting to communicate acknowledgement of this upside-down scenario. She said: “Don't turn to me for support, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and only then I might give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She uttered anything. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I really would not blame her.