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In the run-up to the festive season, I experienced an remarkable incident. I believe it did me good. This occurred at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dentists, but it's not important. The assembled crowd were all blokes, which turns out to be relevant.

A Strange Scenario

The establishment was a bar and eatery enjoying a roaring trade. A forgotten afternoon was shared by the group. Fine cuisine, fine beverages and remarkably entertaining stories about teeth. Inevitably, the moment came for excursions to the men's room. Those who departed, I partially registered, seemed to be gone a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it was my go, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering knew.

A Sample of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect empathy from any lady here. I am fully aware that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I witnessed women waiting in a row while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the inconvenience of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a hint of embarrassment about standing there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly bracing to get a taste of it myself, observing the women breeze through the door while I was forced to wait patiently in queue with my companions, fiddling at anything we had in our pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little familiarity. Women, I surmise, have learned to be quite proficient at it, exchanging polite remarks and an notable insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some female friends of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that intra-queue dialogue is limited to the odd eye roll and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague informed me it’s exclusively at the washbasins afterwards that chat tends to break out.

Had I been a woman, I’d refrain from on both pleasantries or quiet. If I was compelled, over and over, to stand in a public line simply for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the pure injustice of it. A useful measure for any civilised community would be balanced access in toilet lining-up periods. I’m researching research on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Queue

Returning to my queue, I tried to get some male camaraderie flowing about this novel circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and said something along the lines of: “So, this is an disagreeable change, right boys?”

Someone smiled, another seemed nonplussed, a other man looked sheepish. Another shook his head as if this was a further symptom of a failing society, political correctness etc. Otherwise, quiet reigned. Someone emerged, adjusting his clothing. The queue moved forward a spot. Another two men entered the end of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Exchange

A woman emerged out of the next-door restroom, all fresh and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, trying to convey recognition of this reversed scenario. Her response was: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you blighter. Return when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and then I may give you the time of day.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She uttered nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I really would not censure her.