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Just before Christmas, I experienced an extraordinary situation. I believe it proved instructive. This took place at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but it's not important. The assembled crowd were solely men, which turns out to be key.

A Strange Predicament

The venue was a tavern enjoying a excellent custom. A wasted daytime was had by all. Good food, fine libations and surprisingly amusing stories about oral health. Inevitably, the time came for excursions to the gents. Those who went, I vaguely observed, appeared to be absent a significant period. I didn't contemplate why this could be, but when it was my go, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue knew.

A Sample of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely conscious that, for females, having to queue to use a public toilet is standard practice. On countless occasions have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

In addition to the inconvenience of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about standing there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was profoundly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, seeing the opposite gender breeze through the entrance while I was obliged to wait patiently in line with my fellow fellas, fiddling at something we had in our pockets and consulting our phones.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal familiarity. Women, I imagine, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, sharing small talk and an engaging observation or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some female friends of my circle. The consensus is that queue-based communication is restricted to the odd weary glance and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate informed me it’s exclusively at the washbasins afterwards that discussion tends to break out.

Were I a female, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or silence. If I was obliged, time and again, to stand in a shared procession only for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the sheer inequity of it. A valuable metric for any advanced culture would be balanced access in toilet queue durations. I’m researching research on this.

Comradely Chat in the Line

Back in my wait, I endeavoured to spark some male camaraderie started about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something like: “Ah, this is an irksome variation, doesn’t it boys?”

One person grinned, another looked blank, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Another rolled his eyes as if this was one more example of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, silence ensued. A man came out, fastening his trousers. The queue advanced a position. Another two men entered the rear of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Exchange

A female emerged out of the adjacent restroom, all fragrant and unhurried. It was all right for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, trying to communicate recognition of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She remarked: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you bastard. Return when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and then I could give you the time.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She uttered anything. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I honestly wouldn’t fault her.