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In the run-up to the holidays, I experienced an unusual episode. I believe it proved instructive. This took place at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The attending party were all blokes, which is significant.

A Strange Situation

The establishment was a tavern experiencing a excellent custom. A wasted afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Nice fare, nice drink and unexpectedly humorous tales about dentistry. As expected, the time arrived for trips to the male facilities. Those who went, I half-noticed, seemed to be gone a significant period. I didn't contemplate the reason this was, but when it came to my go, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering knew.

A Taste of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect pity from any female reader here. I am fully conscious that, for ladies, 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 hassle of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of humiliation about standing there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was profoundly bracing to get a taste of it myself, observing the women glide through the portal while I was forced to wait patiently with others with my companions, angling away at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Practice of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little familiarity. Ladies, I imagine, have become adept to be rather good at it, sharing small talk and an engaging insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some female friends of my circle. The general agreement is that intra-queue dialogue is limited to the rare weary glance and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague mentioned it’s exclusively at the washbasins subsequently that discussion tends to start up.

Had I been a female, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or reticence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to wait in a shared procession only for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the pure inequity of it. A valuable benchmark for any civilised society would be gender parity in urination waiting times. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Comradely Chat in the Queue

During my time in my wait, I tried to get some male camaraderie started about this new circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something like: “Well, this is an disagreeable variation, right lads?”

Someone smiled, another appeared confused, a other man appeared embarrassed. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was one more example of a failing society, political correctness etc. Aside from that, stillness reigned. A man emerged, zipping up. The group advanced a spot. Two more men took a place at the end of it. I sighed.

A Silent Exchange

A lady emerged out of the next-door restroom, all fresh and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned bashfully at her, trying to express an understanding of this topsy-turvy scenario. Her response was: “Don't come to me for support, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve done this on a regular basis and at that point I could give you the time.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She said anything. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly would not fault her.