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Shortly before the holidays, I experienced an extraordinary episode. I believe it did me good. This occurred at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dentists, but that’s not important. The present group were exclusively male, which turns out to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The location was a bar and eatery experiencing a excellent custom. A forgotten session was enjoyed by everyone. Nice fare, good beverages and unexpectedly amusing anecdotes about teeth. Naturally, the moment arrived for trips to the male facilities. Those who went, I vaguely observed, appeared to be gone a significant period. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it came to my turn, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line knew.

A Sample of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect empathy from any lady here. I am acutely aware that, for ladies, having to queue to use a public toilet is standard practice. On countless occasions have I observed women waiting in a row while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Beyond the hassle of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of indignity about lingering there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, observing the other sex walk straight through the door while I was compelled to stand solemnly with others with my companions, angling away at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Genre of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a entire form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little experience. Females, I presume, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, exchanging pleasantries and an engaging observation or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some women of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that intra-queue dialogue is confined to the odd weary glance and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate told me it’s only at the hand-washing stations later that chat tends to break out.

If I was a woman, I’d refrain from on either small talk or reticence. If I was obliged, time and again, to queue in a common queue simply for the chance to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the sheer unfairness of it. A useful measure for any civilised culture would be equal waiting times in wee queue durations. I’m researching research on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Queue

Back in my wait, I endeavoured to initiate some male camaraderie going about this unprecedented situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and said something like: “Well, this represents an irksome change, isn't it boys?”

Someone grinned, another appeared confused, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Another shook his head as if this was one more symptom of a failing society, woke madness etc. Otherwise, silence prevailed. An individual emerged, zipping up. The line moved forward a place. Two more men entered the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Exchange

A lady emerged out of the next-door facility, all clean and relaxed. It was all right for some. I smiled bashfully at her, attempting to express an understanding of this upside-down state of affairs. She said: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you jerk. Return when you’ve endured this another hundred times and then I may give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She said nothing. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I truly wouldn’t fault her.