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Shortly before Christmas, I encountered an remarkable situation. I feel it proved instructive. This occurred at a meeting of several mates, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but it's not relevant. The assembled group were exclusively male, which turns out to be significant.

A Novel Scenario

The location was a pub/restaurant doing a roaring trade. A wasted session was enjoyed by everyone. Fine fare, fine drink and surprisingly amusing anecdotes about oral health. Naturally, the point arrived for visits to the gents. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, looked to be gone a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it was my turn, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Sample of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any lady here. I am acutely cognizant that, for females, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is the norm. How many times have I witnessed women waiting in a line while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Beyond the inconvenience of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of humiliation about waiting there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was decidedly bracing to have a sample of it myself, seeing the women breeze through the entrance while I was compelled to line up dutifully with others with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at anything we had in our jackets and checking our handsets.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal knowledge. Females, I imagine, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, engaging in polite remarks and an engaging observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some women of my acquaintance. The consensus is that within-the-line interaction is restricted to the rare exasperated look and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate told me it’s exclusively at the sinks later that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a lady, I’d refrain from on either pleasantries or quiet. If I was compelled, time and again, to stand in a common queue simply for the chance to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the sheer unfairness of it. A useful metric for any advanced community would be balanced access in toilet queue durations. I’m seeking out data on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Procession

Returning to my line, I endeavoured to spark some brotherly banter started about this new circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and said something along the lines of: “Ah, this is an irksome difference, right lads?”

Someone grinned, a second seemed nonplussed, a other man seemed awkward. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was one more symptom of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, quiet reigned. A man came out, adjusting his clothing. The line advanced a spot. Another two men joined the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Exchange

A female emerged out of the neighbouring toilet, all fresh and relaxed. It was all right for some. I beamed apologetically at her, attempting to express acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy situation. Her response was: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve endured this another hundred times and at that point I may give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She said nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I really would not blame her.