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Just before the holidays, I encountered an remarkable incident. I think it proved instructive. This happened at a meeting of several mates, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but this isn't important. The attending crowd were all blokes, which proves to be key.

A Strange Scenario

The venue was a bar and eatery enjoying a excellent custom. A forgotten daytime was shared by the group. Good cuisine, nice libations and remarkably humorous tales about dentistry. Inevitably, the time arrived for trips to the gents. Those who went, I vaguely observed, appeared to be gone a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it came to my go, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering recognised.

An Experience of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect empathy from any female reader here. I am obviously aware that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I observed women waiting in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Apart from the inconvenience of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of indignity about waiting there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly bracing to have a sample of it myself, observing the other sex glide through the entrance while I was obliged to line up dutifully with others with my fellow fellas, angling away at anything we had in our trouser pockets and checking our mobile devices.

The Genre of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a complete conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant experience. Females, I surmise, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, exchanging polite remarks and an engaging observation or two.

On this I’ve consulted some women of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that within-the-line communication is restricted to the odd weary glance and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate informed me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations later that discussion tends to break out.

Were I a female, I’d not spend a moment on either niceties or reticence. If I was obliged, over and over, to stand in a common queue simply for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the pure injustice of it. A useful metric for any advanced culture would be gender parity in toilet lining-up periods. I’m seeking out data on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Procession

Back in my wait, I tried to get some friendly chat started about this new state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something like: “So, this makes an irksome difference, doesn’t it lads?”

Someone chuckled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a other man seemed awkward. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more example of a failing society, political correctness etc. Aside from that, stillness reigned. Someone emerged, zipping up. The queue advanced a place. A couple more men entered the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Exchange

A female emerged out of the next-door toilet, all fresh and unhurried. It was all right for some. I beamed bashfully at her, endeavouring to express an understanding of this topsy-turvy scenario. She said: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you bastard. Return when you’ve done this another hundred times and only then I may give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She didn’t say a word. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I truly could not fault her.