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Shortly before Christmas, I encountered an extraordinary episode. I think it was beneficial for me. This took place at a get-together of several mates, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but this isn't important. The assembled crowd were solely men, which proves to be relevant.

A Novel Predicament

The establishment was a tavern enjoying a brisk business. A lost afternoon was shared by the group. Nice fare, nice drink and surprisingly amusing anecdotes about oral health. Inevitably, the moment came for trips to the gents. Those who departed, I half-noticed, appeared to be absent a considerable while. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it came to my turn, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Taste of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for pity from any woman here. I am acutely conscious that, for women, being forced to wait to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I seen women standing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Apart from the hassle of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a hint of embarrassment about lingering there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was profoundly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, watching the other sex glide through the entrance while I was compelled to line up dutifully in line with my fellow fellas, fiddling at something we had in our pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Art of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little experience. Women, I imagine, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in polite remarks and an notable insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The general agreement is that queue-based dialogue is restricted to the occasional weary glance and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate mentioned it’s merely at the hand-washing stations subsequently that discussion tends to start up.

If I was a woman, I’d refrain from on either small talk or reticence. If I was obliged, time and again, to queue in a public line only for the chance to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the pure inequity of it. A handy benchmark for any civilised community would be balanced access in urination queue durations. I’m seeking out research on this.

Male Chat in the Line

Returning to my wait, I attempted to get some friendly chat flowing about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something like: “So, this is an disagreeable change, doesn’t it boys?”

Someone grinned, someone else appeared confused, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Another rolled his eyes as if this was a further manifestation of modern woes, woke madness etc. Otherwise, stillness ensued. Someone exited, adjusting his clothing. The line advanced a position. Another two men took a place at the end of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Interaction

A female emerged out of the adjacent toilet, all fragrant and relaxed. It was all right for some. I beamed apologetically at her, trying to express an understanding of this topsy-turvy situation. She said: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve done this on a regular basis and then I might give you the time.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She said a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I truly wouldn’t fault her.