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Shortly before the holidays, I had an remarkable episode. I feel it did me good. This took place at a get-together of several mates, who are incidentally dentists, but it's not important. The attending crowd were solely men, which turns out to be significant.

A Novel Scenario

The establishment was a pub/restaurant enjoying a roaring trade. A lost daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Good cuisine, fine libations and remarkably entertaining stories about dentistry. Naturally, the time dawned for visits to the gents. Those who departed, I half-noticed, seemed to be gone a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it came to me next, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Sample of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for pity from any female reader here. I am acutely aware that, for women, being forced to wait to use a convenience is standard practice. On countless occasions have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Apart from the annoyance of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of indignity about standing there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was truly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, watching the other sex glide through the portal while I was obliged to line up dutifully in line with my mates, fiddling at something we had in our pockets and consulting our phones.

The Genre of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a complete conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant experience. Women, I presume, have become adept to be rather good at it, exchanging small talk and an notable insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some female friends of my circle. The general agreement is that queue-based interaction is confined to the occasional weary glance and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague told me it’s merely at the sinks later that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or quiet. If I was forced, over and over, to wait in a common queue simply for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the sheer injustice of it. A valuable measure for any advanced community would be gender parity in urination queue durations. I’m looking for research on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Line

Returning to my line, I tried to initiate some brotherly banter flowing about this new circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something to the effect of: “Ah, this is an irksome change, doesn’t it lads?”

A fellow grinned, a second appeared confused, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was a further symptom of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, stillness ensued. An individual exited, fastening his trousers. The queue moved forward a position. A couple more men took a place at the end of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Moment

A lady wafted out of the adjacent facility, all fragrant and at ease. It was all right for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, attempting to communicate acknowledgement of this reversed scenario. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for support, you bastard. Return when you’ve done this a hundred more times and only then I may give you the time of day.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She didn’t say a word. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I really could not fault her.