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In the run-up to Christmas, I experienced an extraordinary episode. I believe it did me good. This happened at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dental professionals, but it's not important. The attending crowd were exclusively male, which turns out to be significant.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The location was a bar and eatery enjoying a brisk business. A wasted daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Good food, good beverages and remarkably humorous stories about dentistry. Inevitably, the time dawned for visits to the male facilities. Those who went, I half-noticed, seemed to be away a considerable while. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it was my turn, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a sizeable procession 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 was not a reality any of us in this line knew.

A Taste of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect pity from any woman here. I am acutely aware that, for ladies, having to queue to use a convenience is the norm. On countless occasions have I witnessed women standing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the hassle of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a hint of indignity about waiting there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was profoundly sobering to get a taste of it myself, watching the women glide through the entrance while I was compelled to wait patiently in line with my companions, fiddling at something we had in our pockets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant familiarity. Ladies, I presume, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in pleasantries and an interesting observation or two.

On this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The consensus is that intra-queue interaction is restricted to the rare eye roll and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate informed me it’s merely at the washbasins later that chat tends to begin.

Had I been a lady, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or reticence. If I was obliged, over and over, to wait in a public line only for the chance to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the sheer unfairness of it. A handy benchmark for any civilised culture would be balanced access in wee lining-up periods. I’m researching studies on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Procession

During my time in my queue, I attempted to spark some friendly chat flowing about this new state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something to the effect of: “Ah, this is an unpleasant change, doesn’t it boys?”

A fellow smiled, another appeared confused, a third seemed awkward. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another symptom of modern woes, political correctness etc. Aside from that, silence reigned. An individual came out, adjusting his clothing. The line moved forward a place. A couple more men entered the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Interaction

A woman wafted out of the neighbouring restroom, all fragrant and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled apologetically at her, attempting to communicate acknowledgement of this upside-down situation. She said: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you blighter. Come back when you’ve done this another hundred times and then I might give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She didn’t say anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I really could not blame her.