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Just before the festive season, I had an extraordinary incident. I think it proved instructive. This occurred at a gathering of some old friends, who are, as it happens dentists, but this isn't important. The assembled group were solely men, which proves to be key.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The location was a pub/restaurant enjoying a excellent custom. A wasted session was enjoyed by everyone. Fine food, good libations and surprisingly amusing tales about dentistry. Inevitably, the point arrived for trips to the gents. Those who departed, I half-noticed, looked to be away a considerable while. I didn't contemplate why this might have been, but when it came to me next, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Sample of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect empathy from any female reader here. I am acutely conscious that, for females, being forced to wait to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I observed women queuing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the hassle of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a hint of humiliation about standing there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly bracing to have a sample of it myself, watching the other sex walk straight through the door while I was forced to stand solemnly with others with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our pockets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a complete conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal familiarity. Females, I imagine, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, engaging in small talk and an notable comment or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some female friends of my circle. The general agreement is that queue-based dialogue is confined to the rare eye roll and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague told me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations later that discussion tends to break out.

Were I a woman, I’d refrain from on both small talk or silence. If I was obliged, over and over, to stand in a shared procession merely for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the pure injustice of it. A handy measure for any advanced society would be balanced access in wee waiting times. I’m researching studies on this.

Male Interaction in the Queue

During my time in my line, I endeavoured to get some brotherly banter going about this novel situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and said something along the lines of: “So, this makes an unpleasant difference, isn't it boys?”

A fellow chuckled, someone else looked blank, a other man seemed awkward. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further example of a failing society, political correctness etc. Otherwise, stillness prevailed. Someone came out, fastening his trousers. The group advanced a place. A couple more men entered the rear of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Interaction

A woman emerged out of the adjacent facility, all fragrant and unhurried. It was all right for some. I grinned apologetically at her, trying to communicate an understanding of this upside-down scenario. She said: “Don’t look to me for support, you jerk. Return when you’ve done this a hundred more times and then I could give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She said anything. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I really could not fault her.