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Just before the holidays, I encountered an remarkable episode. I believe it proved instructive. This happened at a gathering of some old friends, who happen to be dentists, but it's not pertinent. The assembled crowd were all blokes, which turns out to be relevant.

A Strange Scenario

The establishment was a pub/restaurant enjoying a excellent custom. A wasted session was shared by the group. Good cuisine, nice drink and unexpectedly entertaining stories about oral health. As expected, the moment arrived for excursions to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, appeared to be away a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this might have been, but when it was my turn, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue recognised.

A Sample of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for sympathy from any female reader here. I am obviously conscious that, for women, being forced to wait to use a convenience is standard practice. Repeatedly have I observed women waiting in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the inconvenience of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of humiliation about standing there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, watching the other sex glide through the entrance while I was forced to stand solemnly in queue with my mates, looking distractedly at something we had in our pockets and consulting our phones.

The Genre of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a complete form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little familiarity. Women, I presume, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, engaging in small talk and an interesting observation or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some female friends of my knowledge. The consensus is that queue-based dialogue is restricted to the odd weary glance and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate informed me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations subsequently that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or reticence. If I was compelled, time and again, to queue in a common queue only for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the pure inequity of it. A useful metric for any civilised culture would be balanced access in urination waiting times. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Comradely Banter in the Procession

During my time in my queue, I tried to get some brotherly banter going about this new situation of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and said something along the lines of: “So, this is an irksome difference, isn't it chaps?”

Someone smiled, another appeared confused, a other man looked sheepish. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more symptom of modern woes, cultural decline etc. For the most part, quiet reigned. A man exited, zipping up. The queue shuffled up a place. A couple more men joined the rear of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Moment

A female wafted out of the next-door toilet, all fresh and at ease. It was just fine for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, endeavouring to express an understanding of this topsy-turvy scenario. She said: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you jerk. Come back when you’ve done this a hundred more times and then I may give you the time.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She uttered nothing. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I truly wouldn’t blame her.