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Shortly before Christmas, I encountered an unusual situation. I believe it did me good. This occurred at a gathering of some old friends, who happen to be dental professionals, but that’s not relevant. The attending party were all blokes, which is significant.

A Strange Predicament

The location was a pub/restaurant enjoying a brisk business. A forgotten daytime was shared by the group. Fine food, fine drink and remarkably entertaining stories about dentistry. Inevitably, the time came for trips to the male facilities. Those who went, I partially registered, seemed to be away a long time. I didn't ponder why this was, but when it became my go, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Taste of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for pity from any female reader here. I am acutely aware that, for females, being forced to wait to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I observed women queuing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Beyond the hassle of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a hint of indignity about waiting there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was truly sobering to have a sample of it myself, observing the opposite gender glide through the door while I was forced to stand solemnly in line with my fellow fellas, angling away at anything we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little experience. Women, I imagine, have learned to be rather good at it, exchanging pleasantries and an notable comment or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some women of my circle. The general agreement is that queue-based communication is restricted to the occasional exasperated look and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague mentioned it’s only at the sinks subsequently that chat tends to start up.

If I was a woman, I’d waste no time on both small talk or silence. If I was forced, time and again, to queue in a common queue merely for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the sheer unfairness of it. A useful measure for any modern society would be gender parity in wee lining-up periods. I’m researching studies on this.

Male Chat in the Queue

Back in my queue, I attempted to spark some friendly chat flowing about this novel circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something along the lines of: “Well, this represents an disagreeable difference, right lads?”

One person smiled, another appeared confused, a third individual seemed awkward. A further person shook his head as if this was yet another symptom of modern woes, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, quiet reigned. An individual emerged, zipping up. The line advanced a position. Another two men entered the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Moment

A lady glided out of the next-door facility, all fresh and unhurried. It was all right for some. I smiled apologetically at her, trying to express an understanding of this topsy-turvy situation. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for support, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve done this a hundred more times and at that point I may give you the time.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She didn’t say a word. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I truly wouldn’t censure her.