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In the run-up to Christmas, I had an extraordinary episode. I think it proved instructive. This occurred at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but it's not relevant. The present crowd were all blokes, which turns out to be significant.

A Novel Scenario

The location was a bar and eatery experiencing a excellent custom. A lost session was shared by the group. Nice cuisine, fine drink and remarkably amusing stories about dentistry. Naturally, the moment arrived for visits to the men's room. Those who went, I partially registered, seemed to be away a long time. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it was my go, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What strange new world 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 neither court nor expect empathy from any lady here. I am acutely conscious that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a public toilet is the norm. How many times have I observed women standing in a row while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Beyond the annoyance of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a whiff of indignity about lingering there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was profoundly sobering to get a taste of it myself, watching the opposite gender glide through the portal while I was obliged to wait patiently in queue with my mates, looking distractedly at something we had in our pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a complete form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant experience. Women, I presume, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, sharing polite remarks and an interesting comment or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some women of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that within-the-line dialogue is restricted to the rare eye roll and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague mentioned it’s merely at the sinks subsequently that chat tends to break out.

Were I a female, I’d refrain from on both small talk or reticence. If I was obliged, time and again, to wait in a shared procession simply for the chance to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the pure unfairness of it. A useful measure for any modern society would be gender parity in toilet waiting times. I’m researching data on this.

Male Banter in the Procession

Back in my line, I endeavoured to spark some male camaraderie flowing about this novel state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something like: “So, this makes an unpleasant change, right lads?”

A fellow chuckled, a second seemed nonplussed, a other man looked sheepish. Another shook his head as if this was yet another example of a failing society, woke madness etc. Aside from that, quiet reigned. An individual emerged, adjusting his clothing. The group shuffled up a spot. Two more men entered the rear of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Interaction

A woman glided out of the adjacent toilet, all fragrant and at ease. It was just fine for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, trying to convey an understanding of this upside-down situation. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you jerk. Return when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and only then I might give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She said anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly could not fault her.