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In the run-up to Christmas, I had an extraordinary incident. I believe it proved instructive. This occurred at a meeting of several mates, who are incidentally dentists, but this isn't important. The present crowd were exclusively male, which is key.

A Novel Scenario

The location was a bar and eatery experiencing a excellent custom. A forgotten daytime was had by all. Good fare, nice beverages and remarkably amusing stories about teeth. Inevitably, the moment dawned for visits to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, looked to be gone a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it became me next, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line recognised.

A Sample of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for empathy from any woman here. I am fully cognizant that, for females, having to queue to use a public toilet is the norm. Repeatedly have I witnessed women queuing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the annoyance of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about standing there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was truly sobering to get a taste of it myself, watching the women walk straight through the portal while I was compelled to wait patiently in queue with my fellow fellas, angling away at something we had in our jackets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a complete conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant experience. Females, I imagine, have learned to be quite proficient at it, engaging in pleasantries and an notable comment or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my circle. The prevailing view is that queue-based dialogue is restricted to the occasional weary glance and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate mentioned it’s merely at the hand-washing stations later that conversation tends to start up.

If I was a female, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or silence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to queue in a public line merely for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the sheer injustice of it. A valuable benchmark for any civilised community would be equal waiting times in urination queue durations. I’m seeking out data on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Procession

Returning to my wait, I tried to spark some male camaraderie flowing about this novel state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something like: “Well, this represents an irksome change, isn't it lads?”

A fellow grinned, another seemed nonplussed, a third seemed awkward. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more example of a failing society, woke madness etc. For the most part, silence ensued. A man exited, zipping up. The line shuffled up a position. A couple more men joined the back of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Moment

A woman wafted out of the adjacent restroom, all fragrant and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I grinned bashfully at her, trying to express an understanding of this upside-down state of affairs. She remarked: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve done this on a regular basis and only then I may give you the time of day.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She didn’t say anything. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly wouldn’t blame her.