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Just before Christmas, I experienced an unusual incident. I think it did me good. This happened at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but this isn't pertinent. The present group were exclusively male, which proves to be key.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The location was a tavern experiencing a brisk business. A lost afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Good fare, nice drink and surprisingly humorous stories about oral health. Naturally, the point dawned for excursions to the male facilities. Those who departed, I half-noticed, appeared to be gone a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it became my turn, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the female facilities, but a great long one for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line knew.

A Sample of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect pity from any female reader here. I am obviously aware that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is the norm. Repeatedly have I seen women standing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the hassle of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of humiliation about waiting there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, seeing the other sex breeze through the entrance while I was obliged to wait patiently in queue with my companions, looking distractedly at something we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Art of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant familiarity. Females, I presume, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, engaging in small talk and an interesting comment or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some female friends of my knowledge. The general agreement is that intra-queue communication is confined to the odd eye roll and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate told me it’s exclusively at the washbasins subsequently that discussion tends to begin.

Had I been a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or silence. If I was forced, time and again, to wait in a shared procession simply for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the pure injustice of it. A valuable measure for any civilised society would be balanced access in urination queue durations. I’m looking for data on this.

Comradely Banter in the Procession

Returning to my queue, I tried to spark some brotherly banter going about this new state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something like: “So, this is an irksome change, doesn’t it boys?”

One person chuckled, another looked blank, a third seemed awkward. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was a further symptom of a failing society, woke madness etc. For the most part, stillness ensued. A man emerged, fastening his trousers. The group moved forward a position. A couple more men took a place at the back of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Interaction

A female emerged out of the adjacent restroom, all clean and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I smiled apologetically at her, trying to communicate an understanding of this topsy-turvy scenario. Her response was: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve done this another hundred times and only then I might give you the time of day.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She uttered anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly wouldn’t censure her.