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Just before Christmas, I experienced an remarkable episode. I feel it proved instructive. This occurred at a meeting of several mates, who happen to be dental professionals, but that’s not pertinent. The attending party were solely men, which turns out to be key.

A Strange Predicament

The location was a tavern enjoying a brisk business. A lost daytime was shared by the group. Nice food, good libations and remarkably entertaining anecdotes about teeth. Inevitably, the time dawned for excursions to the men's room. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, looked to be gone a considerable while. I didn't contemplate the reason this might have been, but when it came to me next, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line recognised.

A Taste of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any lady here. I am obviously cognizant that, for ladies, having to queue to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I seen women waiting in a row while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Beyond the hassle of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about lingering there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was decidedly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, observing the other sex walk straight through the entrance while I was obliged to stand solemnly in line with my mates, angling away at something we had in our pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a complete form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal knowledge. Ladies, I imagine, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, engaging in polite remarks and an interesting observation or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some female friends of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that queue-based interaction is limited to the odd exasperated look and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate mentioned it’s merely at the sinks subsequently that discussion 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 queue in a common queue only for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the utter inequity of it. A valuable metric for any advanced culture would be gender parity in wee queue durations. I’m researching data on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Queue

During my time in my line, I endeavoured to get some friendly chat started about this new circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and said something like: “Well, this is an unpleasant difference, doesn’t it boys?”

Someone smiled, a second appeared confused, a third individual looked sheepish. Another shook his head as if this was yet another example of modern woes, political correctness etc. Otherwise, quiet reigned. Someone emerged, fastening his trousers. The group shuffled up a place. A couple more men took a place at the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Exchange

A lady wafted out of the neighbouring facility, all fresh and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled apologetically at her, endeavouring to express an understanding of this upside-down state of affairs. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you blighter. Return when you’ve done this a hundred more times and then I might give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She uttered anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly would not blame her.