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In the run-up to the holidays, I encountered an remarkable incident. I believe it did me good. This occurred at a gathering of some old friends, who are incidentally dental professionals, but it's not relevant. The attending party were solely men, which is key.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The venue was a pub/restaurant experiencing a roaring trade. A lost afternoon was shared by the group. Good food, good beverages and surprisingly humorous anecdotes about oral health. As expected, the time dawned for visits to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, looked to be gone a long time. I didn’t dwell on why this might have been, but when it was me next, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line were accustomed to.

A Taste of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for pity from any woman here. I am fully cognizant that, for women, having to queue to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I witnessed women standing in a row while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Apart from the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of humiliation about lingering there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was decidedly sobering to get a taste of it myself, watching the other sex walk straight through the entrance while I was obliged to line up dutifully with others with my companions, fiddling at anything we had in our pockets and checking our handsets.

The Genre of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a complete form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal familiarity. Ladies, I presume, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, sharing pleasantries and an interesting comment or two.

On this I’ve polled some female friends of my knowledge. The general agreement is that within-the-line communication is restricted to the rare exasperated look and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate mentioned it’s only at the washbasins later that discussion tends to start up.

Were I a female, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or reticence. If I was compelled, time and again, to queue in a shared procession merely for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the utter inequity of it. A useful metric for any civilised community would be gender parity in urination lining-up periods. I’m researching data on this.

Comradely Banter in the Line

Back in my line, I attempted to initiate some friendly chat flowing about this unprecedented situation of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something along the lines of: “So, this represents an disagreeable difference, right boys?”

Someone grinned, someone else looked blank, a other man appeared embarrassed. Yet another shook his head as if this was one more manifestation of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, quiet reigned. Someone came out, adjusting his clothing. The line shuffled up a spot. Another two men took a place at the rear of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Interaction

A female emerged out of the neighbouring restroom, all clean and at ease. It was all right for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, endeavouring to express recognition of this reversed scenario. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you bastard. Come back when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and then I could give you the time of day.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She didn’t say nothing. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I honestly would not blame her.