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In the run-up to Christmas, I had an unusual situation. I think it proved instructive. This took place at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The attending party were exclusively male, which is relevant.

A Strange Scenario

The location was a tavern experiencing a roaring trade. A lost afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Fine food, fine libations and surprisingly entertaining stories about dentistry. Naturally, the moment arrived for trips to the gents. Those who went, I partially registered, seemed to be gone a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it came to my go, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue recognised.

A Sample of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for sympathy from any female reader here. I am fully aware that, for women, having to queue to use a restroom is the norm. How many times have I seen women standing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

In addition to the hassle of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a hint of embarrassment about waiting there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly bracing to have a sample of it myself, watching the other sex glide through the entrance while I was compelled to wait patiently in line with my companions, angling away at something we had in our jackets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant knowledge. Women, I imagine, have developed skills to be rather good at it, exchanging pleasantries and an notable comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some female friends of my circle. The general agreement is that intra-queue interaction is limited to the rare exasperated look and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate told me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations afterwards that discussion tends to begin.

Were I a female, I’d waste no time on either small talk or silence. If I was compelled, time and again, to wait in a common queue simply for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the pure injustice of it. A valuable measure for any civilised community would be balanced access in wee queue durations. I’m seeking out data on this.

Male Chat in the Procession

Returning to my line, I endeavoured to spark some brotherly banter going about this novel circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and said something along the lines of: “So, this represents an irksome difference, right lads?”

A fellow smiled, a second appeared confused, a third individual seemed awkward. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more manifestation of a failing society, woke madness etc. Aside from that, quiet prevailed. Someone came out, adjusting his clothing. The group shuffled up a spot. Two more men took a place at the end of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Exchange

A female emerged out of the adjacent restroom, all clean and unhurried. It was all right for some. I beamed apologetically at her, trying to convey recognition of this topsy-turvy situation. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve done this a hundred more times and only then I may give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She didn’t say anything. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I honestly wouldn’t censure her.