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Shortly before Christmas, I experienced an remarkable episode. I believe it was beneficial for me. This happened at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dentists, but this isn't relevant. The attending group were exclusively male, which turns out to be key.

A Novel Scenario

The venue was a tavern experiencing a roaring trade. A lost daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Fine food, good beverages and surprisingly entertaining stories about dentistry. Inevitably, the point dawned for excursions to the male facilities. Those who went, I half-noticed, appeared to be away a considerable while. I didn't ponder why this was, but when it became my turn, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Taste of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any lady here. I am acutely cognizant that, for females, being forced to wait to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I witnessed women queuing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the annoyance of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a hint of indignity about standing there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, watching the opposite gender walk straight through the entrance while I was compelled to wait patiently in queue with my mates, angling away at anything we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Practice of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a entire conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little familiarity. Women, I surmise, have learned to be quite proficient at it, engaging in small talk and an interesting insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my circle. The consensus is that queue-based communication is confined to the rare exasperated look and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate told me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations later that discussion tends to begin.

Had I been a lady, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or quiet. If I was compelled, over and over, to stand in a public line merely for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the pure unfairness of it. A useful benchmark for any advanced society would be gender parity in urination waiting times. I’m seeking out research on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Queue

During my time in my wait, I tried to get some male camaraderie flowing about this new situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and said something like: “Ah, this represents an irksome change, isn't it boys?”

A fellow smiled, another looked blank, a other man seemed awkward. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more symptom of a failing society, political correctness etc. For the most part, quiet ensued. Someone exited, adjusting his clothing. The line shuffled up a place. Another two men took a place at the end of it. I sighed.

A Silent Interaction

A female emerged out of the neighbouring toilet, all fresh and at ease. It was just fine for some. I beamed bashfully at her, attempting to express an understanding of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for support, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and then I could give you the time.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She didn’t say anything. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I truly would not fault her.