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Shortly before Christmas, I experienced an unusual episode. I think it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but that’s not relevant. The present party were exclusively male, which is relevant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The establishment was a tavern doing a brisk business. A forgotten daytime was had by all. Good cuisine, nice libations and unexpectedly humorous stories about oral health. Inevitably, the time dawned for visits to the male facilities. Those who went, I half-noticed, seemed to be gone a long time. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it was me next, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a great long one for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue recognised.

An Experience of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for pity from any woman here. I am fully aware that, for women, being forced to wait to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I observed women waiting in a row while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Beyond the inconvenience of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a hint of humiliation about standing there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was truly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, watching the opposite gender walk straight through the door while I was compelled to wait patiently in queue with my mates, fiddling at something we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our phones.

The Art of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a complete conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal experience. Women, I imagine, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in polite remarks and an interesting comment or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some female friends of my circle. The prevailing view is that intra-queue dialogue is restricted to the occasional exasperated look and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague informed me it’s only at the sinks afterwards that conversation tends to begin.

If I was a female, I’d refrain from on both small talk or reticence. If I was forced, over and over, to stand in a shared procession only for the chance to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter unfairness of it. A useful metric for any advanced community would be equal waiting times in toilet queue durations. I’m looking for studies on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Procession

During my time in my line, I attempted to get some male camaraderie going about this new state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something like: “Ah, this represents an disagreeable difference, isn't it boys?”

A fellow chuckled, another looked blank, a other man appeared embarrassed. Another rolled his eyes as if this was one more symptom of modern woes, political correctness etc. Otherwise, quiet ensued. An individual exited, fastening his trousers. The group shuffled up a place. Another two men entered the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Exchange

A woman emerged out of the next-door facility, all fragrant and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I smiled bashfully at her, trying to express acknowledgement of this upside-down state of affairs. She said: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve endured this another hundred times and then I may give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She uttered nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I truly could not censure her.