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Shortly before the holidays, I encountered an remarkable incident. I feel it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a gathering of several mates, who are incidentally dentists, but that’s not important. The attending crowd were all blokes, which turns out to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The location was a bar and eatery doing a brisk business. A lost afternoon was shared by the group. Nice cuisine, nice drink and unexpectedly entertaining anecdotes about oral health. Inevitably, the point dawned for excursions to the gents. Those who went, I vaguely observed, looked to be away a considerable while. I didn't ponder why this could be, but when it was me next, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Taste of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any female reader here. I am obviously conscious that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I seen women standing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Beyond the annoyance of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a hint of indignity about standing there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly bracing to get a taste of it myself, seeing the other sex walk straight through the portal while I was compelled to stand solemnly in queue with my companions, fiddling at something we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a complete conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal familiarity. Females, I imagine, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, sharing pleasantries and an notable observation or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some female friends of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that intra-queue interaction is restricted to the odd exasperated look and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate informed me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations later that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a female, I’d not spend a moment on either niceties or reticence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to wait in a shared procession merely for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the utter inequity of it. A useful measure for any civilised culture would be gender parity in urination waiting times. I’m looking for studies on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Line

Returning to my line, I attempted to initiate some male camaraderie flowing about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and said something like: “Well, this is an unpleasant difference, doesn’t it boys?”

One person smiled, another appeared confused, a third individual looked sheepish. Another rolled his eyes as if this was one more example of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, stillness ensued. An individual exited, fastening his trousers. The line moved forward a place. Two more men entered the rear of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Interaction

A woman wafted out of the next-door facility, all fragrant and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed apologetically at her, endeavouring to convey acknowledgement of this reversed situation. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you blighter. Come back when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and at that point I might give you the time of day.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I truly would not blame her.