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Just before Christmas, I encountered an remarkable incident. I think it proved instructive. This took place at a gathering of some old friends, who happen to be tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The attending crowd were all blokes, which is relevant.

A Strange Situation

The establishment was a bar and eatery doing a brisk business. A lost afternoon was shared by the group. Nice cuisine, nice beverages and unexpectedly entertaining tales about oral health. Naturally, the point arrived for excursions to the men's room. Those who departed, I half-noticed, looked to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this might have been, but when it became me next, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue knew.

A Taste of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect pity from any female reader here. I am acutely conscious that, for females, having to queue to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I observed women standing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Beyond the hassle of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a hint of indignity about standing there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly sobering to get a taste of it myself, observing the opposite gender breeze through the portal while I was forced to line up dutifully with others with my fellow fellas, fiddling at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and checking our phones.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a whole conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant familiarity. Women, I imagine, have learned to be quite proficient at it, engaging in pleasantries and an interesting observation or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some women of my knowledge. The consensus is that intra-queue communication is confined to the occasional exasperated look and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate informed me it’s only at the sinks subsequently that discussion tends to begin.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both pleasantries or quiet. If I was compelled, over and over, to wait in a common queue only for the chance to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the pure injustice of it. A handy measure for any modern culture would be gender parity in wee waiting times. I’m researching research on this.

Male Interaction in the Procession

Returning to my wait, I endeavoured to get some brotherly banter flowing about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something to the effect of: “So, this makes an unpleasant change, isn't it lads?”

Someone smiled, another seemed nonplussed, a third looked sheepish. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was one more example of modern woes, woke madness etc. Aside from that, stillness prevailed. Someone exited, adjusting his clothing. The group advanced a spot. Another two men joined the rear of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Interaction

A woman wafted out of the adjacent restroom, all fragrant and at ease. It was just fine for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, attempting to communicate recognition of this topsy-turvy scenario. Her response was: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you bastard. Return when you’ve endured this another hundred times and at that point I might give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She didn’t say a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I truly would not blame her.