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Shortly before the festive season, I had an unusual situation. I believe it was beneficial for me. This took place at a gathering of some old friends, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The present group were all blokes, which turns out to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The establishment was a pub/restaurant enjoying a roaring trade. A forgotten daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Good cuisine, fine drink and unexpectedly humorous tales about teeth. Naturally, the moment dawned for trips to the men's room. Those who went, I vaguely observed, looked to be absent a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it came to my go, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Sample of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for empathy from any woman here. I am fully aware that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is standard practice. On countless occasions have I seen women waiting in a row while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the hassle of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of humiliation about lingering there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was decidedly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, watching the other sex walk straight through the entrance while I was compelled to wait patiently in line with my fellow fellas, angling away at something we had in our jackets and consulting our handsets.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a entire form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant knowledge. Females, I surmise, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in polite remarks and an interesting observation or two.

On this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my circle. The general agreement is that intra-queue dialogue is restricted to the occasional eye roll and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague informed me it’s only at the washbasins subsequently that discussion tends to begin.

If I was a female, I’d refrain from on either pleasantries or quiet. If I was forced, time and again, to queue in a common queue merely for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the pure unfairness of it. A valuable benchmark for any civilised society would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Comradely Banter in the Line

Back in my queue, I endeavoured to get some male camaraderie going about this novel situation of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something along the lines of: “Well, this represents an unpleasant change, right lads?”

One person chuckled, someone else looked blank, a third individual seemed awkward. A further person shook his head as if this was a further manifestation of modern woes, woke madness etc. Otherwise, silence prevailed. An individual exited, zipping up. The queue moved forward a position. Two more men entered the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Moment

A female glided out of the adjacent toilet, all clean and unhurried. It was all right for some. I beamed bashfully at her, endeavouring to express acknowledgement of this upside-down situation. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you jerk. Come back when you’ve done this another hundred times and then I could give you the time of day.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She said nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I really wouldn’t fault her.