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Just before the festive season, I experienced an remarkable incident. I believe it did me good. This happened at a get-together of several mates, who happen to be dentists, but that’s not relevant. The assembled party were all blokes, which turns out to be significant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The venue was a pub/restaurant experiencing a brisk business. A forgotten session was shared by the group. Good fare, fine drink and unexpectedly entertaining anecdotes about dentistry. Naturally, the moment came for excursions to the men's room. Those who departed, I half-noticed, seemed to be absent a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it became my turn, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a long queue for the men's restroom. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Sample of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any lady here. I am acutely conscious that, for women, needing to line up to use a convenience is standard practice. On countless occasions have I seen women queuing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Apart from the hassle of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a hint of indignity about lingering there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly bracing to have a sample of it myself, watching the other sex breeze through the portal while I was forced to wait patiently in line with my fellow fellas, fiddling at whatever we had in our jackets and checking our phones.

The Art of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a whole form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little knowledge. Females, I imagine, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging pleasantries and an interesting comment or two.

On this I’ve polled some female friends of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that within-the-line dialogue is restricted to the rare weary glance and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate told me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations afterwards that conversation tends to start up.

If I was a woman, I’d refrain from on either small talk or reticence. If I was compelled, over and over, to stand in a public line simply for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the utter unfairness of it. A valuable metric for any civilised society would be equal waiting times in toilet queue durations. I’m researching studies on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Queue

Returning to my wait, I attempted to get some brotherly banter started about this new situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something to the effect of: “Well, this is an disagreeable variation, doesn’t it boys?”

One person grinned, someone else looked blank, a third appeared embarrassed. A further person shook his head as if this was one more manifestation of modern woes, political correctness etc. Aside from that, silence ensued. An individual came out, adjusting his clothing. The queue advanced a spot. A couple more men entered the end of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Exchange

A woman glided out of the neighbouring restroom, all fresh and relaxed. It was all right for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, endeavouring to communicate recognition of this reversed situation. Her response was: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve done this a hundred more times and at that point I could give you the time of day.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly would not fault her.