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Shortly before the holidays, I had an unusual incident. I believe it did me good. This occurred at a meeting of several mates, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but that’s not pertinent. The present crowd were all blokes, which proves to be relevant.

A Novel Situation

The establishment was a tavern enjoying a excellent custom. A forgotten daytime was had by all. Fine food, fine beverages and unexpectedly humorous anecdotes about teeth. Naturally, the moment arrived for trips to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, looked to be gone a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on why this might have been, but when it came to my turn, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Taste of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect pity from any woman here. I am fully conscious that, for women, needing to line up to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I observed women standing in a row while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Beyond the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about lingering there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was profoundly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, observing the other sex walk straight through the entrance while I was compelled to stand solemnly in line with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at anything we had in our trouser pockets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a whole conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little familiarity. Females, I imagine, have become adept to be rather good at it, sharing small talk and an interesting comment or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some women of my knowledge. The consensus is that queue-based interaction is limited to the occasional weary glance and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate told me it’s merely at the sinks later that conversation tends to begin.

Had I been a female, I’d waste no time on both small talk or silence. If I was forced, time and again, to stand in a shared procession only for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the sheer unfairness of it. A handy benchmark for any modern culture would be equal waiting times in toilet queue durations. I’m seeking out research on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Queue

During my time in my line, I attempted to spark some friendly chat flowing about this novel state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and said something like: “So, this represents an unpleasant difference, isn't it lads?”

One person smiled, a second seemed nonplussed, a other man looked sheepish. Another shook his head as if this was one more example of modern woes, woke madness etc. For the most part, silence prevailed. An individual came out, zipping up. The queue shuffled up a position. Two more men joined the back of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Exchange

A lady wafted out of the next-door toilet, all fresh and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned bashfully at her, endeavouring to convey recognition of this upside-down scenario. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for support, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve endured this another hundred times and at that point I might give you the time of day.”

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