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Just before the festive season, I encountered an remarkable situation. I believe it did me good. This took place at a gathering of some old friends, who are incidentally dental professionals, but this isn't pertinent. The assembled group were all blokes, which is key.

A Novel Scenario

The establishment was a tavern enjoying a roaring trade. A lost daytime was had by all. Nice food, fine libations and unexpectedly entertaining anecdotes about oral health. Inevitably, the point came for excursions to the male facilities. Those who went, I partially registered, seemed to be away a long time. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it was my turn, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. An empty space for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line recognised.

A Taste of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for sympathy from any lady here. I am obviously aware that, for women, having to queue to use a convenience is the norm. On countless occasions have I observed women waiting in a row while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Beyond the hassle of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of humiliation about lingering there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was decidedly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the opposite gender glide through the portal while I was obliged to stand solemnly with others with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Art of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a entire form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant experience. Ladies, I surmise, have become adept to be rather good at it, exchanging small talk and an engaging comment or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some women of my circle. The general agreement is that queue-based interaction is confined to the rare weary glance and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate told me it’s merely at the washbasins later that chat tends to begin.

If I was a female, I’d refrain from on both niceties or reticence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to wait in a common queue merely for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the utter injustice of it. A valuable benchmark for any advanced culture would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m researching research on this.

Male Interaction in the Line

Back in my queue, I endeavoured to initiate some friendly chat going about this new circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something along the lines of: “Well, this represents an disagreeable difference, isn't it chaps?”

One person smiled, someone else appeared confused, a third looked sheepish. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another manifestation of a failing society, woke madness etc. Otherwise, stillness reigned. An individual emerged, adjusting his clothing. The group advanced a position. Another two men took a place at the back of it. I sighed.

A Silent Exchange

A female emerged out of the adjacent toilet, all clean and relaxed. It was all right for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, trying to communicate recognition of this upside-down situation. Her response was: “Don't come to me for support, you jerk. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and then I may give you the time.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She said a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly could not fault her.