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In the run-up to Christmas, I encountered an remarkable situation. I believe it was beneficial for me. This happened at a gathering of several mates, who happen to be tooth doctors, but it's not relevant. The assembled group were all blokes, which turns out to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The venue was a pub/restaurant enjoying a brisk business. A forgotten daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Fine cuisine, nice libations and unexpectedly entertaining tales about dentistry. Inevitably, the time dawned for visits to the gents. Those who departed, I partially registered, appeared to be away a considerable while. I didn't contemplate the reason this was, but when it was me next, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering recognised.

An Experience of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any female reader here. I am fully cognizant that, for women, being forced to wait to use a convenience is the norm. Repeatedly have I observed women queuing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

In addition to the hassle of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a tinge of humiliation about waiting there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was decidedly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, observing the women walk straight through the entrance while I was compelled to line up dutifully in queue with my companions, fiddling at anything we had in our jackets and checking our phones.

The Practice of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a whole form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant familiarity. Females, I imagine, have learned to be rather good at it, engaging in small talk and an engaging insight or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some women of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that intra-queue communication is limited to the occasional eye roll and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague mentioned it’s only at the sinks afterwards that chat tends to break out.

If I was a woman, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or quiet. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to queue in a shared procession merely for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the utter inequity of it. A valuable measure for any civilised culture would be balanced access in wee lining-up periods. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Comradely Banter in the Line

Back in my queue, I endeavoured to get some friendly chat going about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and said something to the effect of: “Well, this makes an irksome change, isn't it boys?”

Someone grinned, another looked blank, a third appeared embarrassed. Another rolled his eyes as if this was one more example of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, quiet ensued. An individual came out, zipping up. The line shuffled up a spot. Two more men took a place at the rear of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Interaction

A female glided out of the adjacent facility, all fragrant and at ease. It was just fine for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, endeavouring to express acknowledgement of this reversed state of affairs. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for support, you jerk. Come back when you’ve endured this another hundred times and then I may give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She said nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly could not blame her.