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Shortly before the holidays, I experienced an extraordinary situation. I think it proved instructive. This occurred at a get-together of some old friends, who are incidentally dentists, but this isn't relevant. The attending crowd were all blokes, which is significant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The establishment was a bar and eatery enjoying a excellent custom. A forgotten daytime was shared by the group. Good fare, nice libations and unexpectedly amusing tales about oral health. Naturally, the moment came for excursions to the gents. Those who departed, I partially registered, appeared to be gone a considerable while. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it became me next, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Taste of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for sympathy from any lady here. I am acutely cognizant that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is the norm. Repeatedly have I seen women waiting in a line while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Beyond the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a hint of embarrassment about waiting there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was decidedly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, watching the other sex breeze through the door while I was compelled to stand solemnly in line with my mates, looking distractedly at something we had in our pockets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Practice of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a whole conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little knowledge. Ladies, I surmise, have developed skills to be rather good at it, engaging in polite remarks and an engaging insight or two.

On this I’ve consulted some women of my circle. The prevailing view is that within-the-line interaction is limited to the rare exasperated look and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague mentioned it’s merely at the washbasins subsequently that conversation tends to start up.

Had I been a woman, I’d refrain from on both small talk or silence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to wait in a common queue only for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the pure injustice of it. A useful benchmark for any civilised community would be gender parity in wee queue durations. I’m researching data on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Queue

Returning to my line, I tried to initiate some friendly chat going about this unprecedented situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something like: “So, this makes an unpleasant difference, doesn’t it lads?”

One person smiled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third seemed awkward. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another example of a failing society, woke madness etc. For the most part, silence reigned. Someone emerged, fastening his trousers. The group moved forward a spot. Two more men took a place at the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Moment

A woman wafted out of the next-door toilet, all fragrant and at ease. It was all right for some. I smiled apologetically at her, attempting to convey acknowledgement of this upside-down situation. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you jerk. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and only then I might give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She uttered nothing. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I really would not blame her.