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Just before Christmas, I encountered an remarkable episode. I believe it did me good. This happened at a meeting of several mates, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but that’s not important. The assembled party were all blokes, which proves to be key.

A Novel Scenario

The location was a bar and eatery experiencing a brisk business. A lost daytime was had by all. Fine cuisine, good drink and surprisingly amusing tales about oral health. As expected, the moment dawned for visits to the male facilities. Those who went, I partially registered, appeared to be away a long time. I didn't ponder why this was, but when it became my go, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue knew.

A Sample of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any lady here. I am acutely conscious that, for women, having to queue to use a convenience is standard practice. How many times have I observed women queuing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Apart from the hassle of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a hint of embarrassment about waiting there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was profoundly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, observing the other sex walk straight through the door while I was forced to stand solemnly in queue with my companions, looking distractedly at anything we had in our pockets and consulting our phones.

The Art of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant familiarity. Females, I presume, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, exchanging pleasantries and an notable observation or two.

On this I’ve asked some female friends of my acquaintance. The consensus is that intra-queue communication is limited to the odd eye roll and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate informed me it’s exclusively at the washbasins subsequently that chat tends to break out.

Had I been a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to wait in a shared procession only for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like crazy at the utter injustice of it. A useful benchmark for any civilised society would be equal waiting times in toilet queue durations. I’m researching research on this.

Male Chat in the Queue

During my time in my queue, I attempted to initiate some male camaraderie going about this new circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something to the effect of: “Ah, this is an disagreeable difference, isn't it boys?”

One person chuckled, someone else appeared confused, a third seemed awkward. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another example of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, quiet reigned. Someone exited, zipping up. The line advanced a position. A couple more men joined the end of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Exchange

A female wafted out of the neighbouring toilet, all clean and at ease. It was all right for some. I smiled bashfully at her, trying to communicate recognition of this topsy-turvy scenario. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve done this a hundred more times and at that point I may give you the time of day.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She uttered a word. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I truly would not censure her.