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In the run-up to Christmas, I encountered an extraordinary episode. I believe it proved instructive. This took place at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but this isn't pertinent. The attending group were exclusively male, which proves to be key.

A Novel Predicament

The location was a tavern enjoying a brisk business. A wasted daytime was had by all. Good cuisine, good beverages and remarkably humorous tales about oral health. As expected, the point dawned for visits to the male facilities. Those who departed, I partially registered, looked to be gone a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this was, but when it became me next, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

An Experience of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any woman here. I am obviously cognizant that, for women, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Beyond the hassle of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about lingering there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly sobering to have a sample of it myself, observing the women walk straight through the entrance while I was forced to wait patiently in queue with my companions, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a whole 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 polled some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that queue-based interaction is confined to the odd exasperated look and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague informed me it’s merely at the sinks subsequently that conversation tends to begin.

Were I a lady, I’d waste no time on both small talk or quiet. If I was forced, repeatedly, to stand in a public line only for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the pure inequity of it. A valuable measure for any modern community would be gender parity in toilet waiting times. I’m researching research on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Queue

Back in my line, I attempted to spark some male camaraderie going about this novel state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something along the lines of: “So, this makes an disagreeable difference, right chaps?”

Someone smiled, a second appeared confused, a third looked sheepish. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was one more manifestation of a failing society, woke madness etc. For the most part, silence ensued. Someone came out, fastening his trousers. The group moved forward a spot. A couple more men joined the end of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Exchange

A woman emerged out of the next-door toilet, all fragrant and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed apologetically at her, endeavouring to convey recognition of this topsy-turvy scenario. She remarked: “Don't come to me for support, you bastard. Come back when you’ve done this another hundred times and at that point I might give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say nothing. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I truly would not fault her.