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In the run-up to the festive season, I had an remarkable episode. I feel it proved instructive. This occurred at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dentists, but this isn't relevant. The present crowd were all blokes, which is relevant.

A Novel Scenario

The venue was a bar and eatery doing a excellent custom. A lost afternoon was shared by the group. Fine food, nice beverages and remarkably amusing anecdotes about dentistry. As expected, the time dawned for visits to the men's room. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, looked to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it became me next, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line were accustomed to.

A Taste of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any female reader here. I am acutely cognizant that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a restroom is standard practice. How many times have I witnessed women queuing in a row while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Apart from the hassle of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a hint of humiliation about standing there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was decidedly sobering to have a sample of it myself, watching the other sex glide through the door while I was obliged to wait patiently in queue with my mates, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a entire form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little familiarity. Ladies, I presume, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in polite remarks and an engaging insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my circle. The consensus is that within-the-line interaction is confined to the odd eye roll and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate informed me it’s only at the washbasins later that discussion tends to start up.

Were I a woman, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or silence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to queue in a public line merely for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the utter unfairness of it. A valuable metric for any advanced community would be balanced access in wee lining-up periods. I’m seeking out data on this.

Comradely Banter in the Procession

Back in my line, I tried to get some male camaraderie flowing about this new state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and said something along the lines of: “So, this represents an irksome difference, right boys?”

One person smiled, another looked blank, a third looked sheepish. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another manifestation of modern woes, woke madness etc. Aside from that, stillness reigned. An individual emerged, fastening his trousers. The group advanced a position. Two more men joined the rear of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Moment

A female glided out of the next-door toilet, all clean and unhurried. It was all right for some. I grinned apologetically at her, endeavouring to convey an understanding of this topsy-turvy situation. She remarked: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and only then I could give you the time of day.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She didn’t say anything. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly would not censure her.