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In the run-up to Christmas, I experienced an unusual episode. I believe it was beneficial for me. This took place at a get-together of some old friends, who are incidentally dental professionals, but it's not important. The attending group were all blokes, which proves to be key.

A Novel Predicament

The venue was a tavern doing a excellent custom. A lost daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Nice fare, fine beverages and surprisingly amusing stories about teeth. As expected, the point came for trips to the gents. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, looked to be gone a long time. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it came to my turn, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Sample of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect empathy from any female reader here. I am fully conscious that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I witnessed women standing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Apart from the hassle of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of indignity about standing there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was truly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, watching the women walk straight through the door while I was forced to wait patiently with others with my fellow fellas, fiddling at anything we had in our trouser pockets and checking our mobile devices.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a complete form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant experience. Women, I presume, have learned to be rather good at it, exchanging polite remarks and an interesting comment or two.

On this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The consensus is that within-the-line communication is restricted to the odd weary glance and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague told me it’s exclusively at the washbasins subsequently that discussion tends to break out.

Had I been a woman, I’d waste no time on both niceties or reticence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to queue in a common queue simply for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the pure unfairness of it. A handy measure for any modern community would be gender parity in urination queue durations. I’m seeking out research on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Line

Returning to my queue, I endeavoured to initiate some friendly chat started about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something like: “Well, this represents an unpleasant variation, right boys?”

A fellow grinned, another appeared confused, a other man appeared embarrassed. Yet another shook his head as if this was a further manifestation of modern woes, political correctness etc. For the most part, stillness ensued. A man exited, fastening his trousers. The queue advanced a spot. Two more men joined the back of it. I sighed.

A Silent Moment

A lady emerged out of the adjacent restroom, all fresh and relaxed. It was all right for some. I beamed apologetically at her, trying to express acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy situation. Her response was: “Don't come to me for support, you jerk. Come back when you’ve done this another hundred times and at that point I could give you the time.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She said a word. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly wouldn’t censure her.