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Shortly before the holidays, I experienced an extraordinary incident. I think it proved instructive. This happened at a meeting of several mates, who happen to be dentists, but that’s not pertinent. The assembled crowd were solely men, which turns out to be relevant.

A Novel Predicament

The venue was a pub/restaurant experiencing a brisk business. A wasted afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Fine food, good beverages and unexpectedly amusing stories about dentistry. Naturally, the point dawned for excursions to the men's room. Those who went, I partially registered, looked to be absent a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it was me next, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men's. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue knew.

A Sample of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any woman here. I am obviously conscious that, for women, needing to line up to use a restroom is standard practice. How many times have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

In addition to the annoyance of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of indignity about waiting there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was profoundly bracing to get a taste of it myself, watching the opposite gender glide through the portal while I was forced to stand solemnly in queue with my fellow fellas, angling away at whatever we had in our jackets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal experience. Ladies, I presume, have learned to be rather good at it, engaging in small talk and an notable comment or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some women of my knowledge. The general agreement is that queue-based communication is restricted to the rare eye roll and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate mentioned it’s only at the washbasins subsequently that conversation tends to begin.

Had I been a woman, I’d waste no time on either small talk or silence. If I was forced, time and again, to queue in a common queue merely for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter injustice of it. A handy metric for any advanced community would be equal waiting times in toilet waiting times. I’m researching data on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Queue

Returning to my wait, I attempted to get some male camaraderie flowing about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something to the effect of: “Ah, this makes an disagreeable change, right chaps?”

A fellow smiled, a second seemed nonplussed, a third looked sheepish. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further example of modern woes, woke madness etc. Aside from that, stillness prevailed. A man emerged, adjusting his clothing. The line moved forward a spot. Another two men took a place at the rear of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Exchange

A woman emerged out of the neighbouring restroom, all clean and at ease. It was all right for some. I smiled bashfully at her, attempting to express recognition of this upside-down state of affairs. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you blighter. Come back when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and only then I might give you the time.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She said nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I honestly could not blame her.