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Just before the festive season, I encountered an remarkable incident. I think it was beneficial for me. This took place at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but this isn't important. The present party were exclusively male, which proves to be relevant.

A Novel Scenario

The establishment was a tavern experiencing a excellent custom. A forgotten daytime was had by all. Good food, nice beverages and surprisingly amusing tales about oral health. Naturally, the time came for visits to the men's room. Those who departed, I partially registered, seemed to be away a considerable while. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it came to my go, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the female facilities, but a great long one for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line knew.

A Taste of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any lady here. I am acutely cognizant that, for females, needing to line up to use a restroom is the norm. Repeatedly have I observed women waiting in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the annoyance of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of humiliation about lingering there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was truly bracing to have a sample of it myself, seeing the other sex walk straight through the portal while I was compelled to stand solemnly with others with my mates, angling away at something we had in our jackets and consulting our handsets.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a whole conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal experience. Ladies, I imagine, have become adept to be rather good at it, exchanging polite remarks and an engaging insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some female friends of my circle. The consensus is that queue-based communication is limited to the odd exasperated look and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate mentioned it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations subsequently that conversation tends to break out.

Were I a lady, I’d refrain from on either small talk or reticence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to stand in a shared procession only for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like crazy at the utter inequity of it. A handy benchmark for any civilised society would be equal waiting times in wee queue durations. I’m seeking out data on this.

Male Banter in the Procession

During my time in my line, I endeavoured to spark some brotherly banter started about this new circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something like: “Well, this is an irksome variation, right lads?”

One person grinned, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third appeared embarrassed. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was one more symptom of modern woes, woke madness etc. Otherwise, silence prevailed. Someone came out, zipping up. The queue moved forward a place. Two more men took a place at the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Exchange

A woman glided out of the next-door restroom, all fragrant and relaxed. It was all right for some. I beamed apologetically at her, trying to communicate recognition of this reversed scenario. She said: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you blighter. Return when you’ve endured this another hundred times and at that point I may give you the time of day.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She said anything. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly wouldn’t fault her.