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Shortly before the festive season, I had an extraordinary incident. I feel it did me good. This occurred at a gathering of several mates, who are, as it happens dentists, but it's not important. The assembled crowd were exclusively male, which is relevant.

A Novel Situation

The venue was a pub/restaurant experiencing a brisk business. A wasted session was shared by the group. Fine fare, good drink and unexpectedly entertaining tales about teeth. Inevitably, the point dawned for visits to the men's room. Those who departed, I partially registered, appeared to be absent a considerable while. I didn't ponder why this might have been, but when it became my turn, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a great long one for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue recognised.

A Sample of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect pity from any lady here. I am obviously aware that, for ladies, having to queue to use a convenience is standard practice. On countless occasions have I witnessed women waiting in a row while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the hassle of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about waiting there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly bracing to have a sample of it myself, observing the other sex walk straight through the portal while I was obliged to line up dutifully with others with my mates, angling away at anything we had in our jackets and consulting our handsets.

The Art of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a whole form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little knowledge. Women, I surmise, have learned to be rather good at it, exchanging polite remarks and an interesting insight or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some female friends of my circle. The general agreement is that queue-based interaction is confined to the occasional eye roll and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague told me it’s merely at the washbasins subsequently that chat tends to start up.

Had I been a woman, I’d waste no time on either niceties or quiet. If I was compelled, time and again, to queue in a shared procession only for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the sheer injustice of it. A handy benchmark for any modern society would be balanced access in wee queue durations. I’m looking for studies on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Queue

Returning to my line, I attempted to get some male camaraderie flowing about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something to the effect of: “Ah, this is an irksome change, isn't it chaps?”

A fellow grinned, a second seemed nonplussed, a third appeared embarrassed. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more symptom of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, stillness ensued. A man exited, zipping up. The group moved forward a position. Another two men joined the back of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Moment

A woman wafted out of the next-door facility, all fresh and relaxed. It was all right for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, attempting to express an understanding of this topsy-turvy situation. Her response was: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you blighter. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and then I might give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She uttered a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I truly wouldn’t blame her.