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Just before the festive season, I encountered an extraordinary situation. I think it proved instructive. This occurred at a gathering of several mates, who happen to be dentists, but this isn't relevant. The assembled group were all blokes, which turns out to be key.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The venue was a bar and eatery doing a roaring trade. A forgotten afternoon was had by all. Good fare, fine libations and unexpectedly humorous tales about oral health. As expected, the point arrived for visits to the gents. Those who went, I vaguely observed, seemed to be absent a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this might have been, but when it came to my turn, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Taste of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for sympathy from any woman here. I am obviously aware that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is standard practice. On countless occasions have I witnessed women queuing in a row while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the hassle of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a whiff of humiliation about standing there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, watching the women walk straight through the entrance while I was compelled to line up dutifully in queue with my companions, angling away at something we had in our jackets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal familiarity. Women, I imagine, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, sharing pleasantries and an engaging observation or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some women of my circle. The consensus is that within-the-line communication is limited to the rare weary glance and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague told me it’s merely at the washbasins subsequently that discussion tends to begin.

Were I a lady, I’d waste no time on both small talk or quiet. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to wait in a common queue simply for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the sheer inequity of it. A valuable measure for any advanced society would be gender parity in wee lining-up periods. I’m researching data on this.

Comradely Chat in the Procession

Back in my line, I tried to get some male camaraderie started about this unprecedented situation of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and said something along the lines of: “Ah, this represents an irksome change, doesn’t it chaps?”

One person grinned, someone else looked blank, a other man appeared embarrassed. Another shook his head as if this was a further symptom of modern woes, woke madness etc. For the most part, silence reigned. An individual emerged, zipping up. The group moved forward a place. Another two men entered the end of it. I sighed.

A Silent Moment

A female glided out of the neighbouring facility, all fresh and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, attempting to communicate recognition of this upside-down situation. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you blighter. Return when you’ve done this on a regular basis and then I might give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She said nothing. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I truly could not fault her.