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In the run-up to Christmas, I had an unusual episode. I feel it was beneficial for me. This happened at a get-together of several mates, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but it's not relevant. The assembled party were exclusively male, which is key.

A Novel Predicament

The establishment was a pub/restaurant experiencing a brisk business. A lost afternoon was shared by the group. Good fare, nice libations and remarkably amusing anecdotes about oral health. As expected, the point arrived for trips to the gents. Those who departed, I half-noticed, looked to be away a considerable while. I didn't contemplate the reason this was, but when it came to my go, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line were accustomed to.

An Experience of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect empathy from any lady here. I am fully aware that, for women, having to queue to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I observed women standing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Beyond the annoyance of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a hint of embarrassment about waiting there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was truly bracing to get a taste of it myself, seeing the opposite gender glide through the door while I was obliged to line up dutifully in line with my mates, fiddling at whatever we had in our pockets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little familiarity. Ladies, I imagine, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in pleasantries and an engaging comment or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my circle. The prevailing view is that queue-based dialogue is limited to the rare exasperated look and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague informed me it’s merely at the washbasins later that chat tends to start up.

Had I been a lady, I’d waste no time on either small talk or quiet. If I was forced, time and again, to queue in a shared procession merely for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the sheer injustice of it. A valuable measure for any civilised society would be gender parity in wee queue durations. I’m researching studies on this.

Male Banter in the Line

Returning to my queue, I attempted to get some brotherly banter going about this new state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something to the effect of: “So, this makes an irksome change, doesn’t it lads?”

Someone chuckled, another looked blank, a third looked sheepish. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more example of modern woes, political correctness etc. Otherwise, stillness prevailed. A man came out, zipping up. The group shuffled up a place. A couple more men joined the rear of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Interaction

A woman emerged out of the next-door facility, all fresh and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, endeavouring to convey recognition of this upside-down scenario. She said: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and only then I might give you the time.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She didn’t say anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I truly would not blame her.