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Just before Christmas, I had an unusual episode. I feel it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a meeting of some old friends, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but it's not relevant. The present party were solely men, which proves to be significant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The venue was a bar and eatery experiencing a roaring trade. A forgotten daytime was shared by the group. Fine food, nice drink and surprisingly amusing tales about teeth. As expected, the point came for visits to the men's room. Those who departed, I half-noticed, appeared to be gone a significant period. I didn't ponder the reason this might have been, but when it came to me next, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue knew.

An Experience of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely conscious that, for females, needing to line up to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I seen women standing in a row while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the hassle of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a hint of humiliation about waiting there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was decidedly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, observing the opposite gender breeze through the door while I was obliged to stand solemnly in line with my mates, looking distractedly at something we had in our pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant familiarity. Females, I presume, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in pleasantries and an interesting insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my circle. The general agreement is that within-the-line interaction is restricted to the occasional weary glance and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate mentioned it’s merely at the sinks afterwards that conversation tends to break out.

Had I been a lady, I’d waste no time on both small talk or quiet. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to queue in a public line merely for the chance to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the pure inequity of it. A valuable measure for any modern culture would be balanced access in urination queue durations. I’m looking for research on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Queue

During my time in my wait, I tried to spark some male camaraderie going about this unprecedented situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and said something like: “So, this makes an unpleasant difference, isn't it chaps?”

A fellow chuckled, someone else appeared confused, a third looked sheepish. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was a further manifestation of modern woes, political correctness etc. For the most part, quiet prevailed. An individual came out, zipping up. The queue moved forward a place. Another two men joined the back of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Interaction

A woman glided out of the neighbouring restroom, all fresh and at ease. It was all right for some. I grinned apologetically at her, trying to communicate acknowledgement of this upside-down situation. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you blighter. Return when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and then I might give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She uttered anything. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I really would not censure her.