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Shortly before the festive season, I encountered an extraordinary incident. I believe it proved instructive. This happened at a meeting of several mates, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but this isn't relevant. The attending party were exclusively male, which is significant.

A Novel Situation

The location was a pub/restaurant experiencing a brisk business. A lost afternoon was had by all. Fine food, good beverages and surprisingly entertaining anecdotes about oral health. As expected, the point came for excursions to the men's room. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, seemed to be gone a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it came to my go, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line 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 was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

An Experience of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any female reader here. I am obviously aware that, for females, needing to line up to use a convenience is the norm. Repeatedly have I seen women standing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Apart from the hassle of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about standing there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was profoundly sobering to get a taste of it myself, watching the other sex breeze through the portal while I was compelled to line up dutifully in queue with my mates, angling away at whatever we had in our jackets and consulting our phones.

The Genre of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant experience. Females, I imagine, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, sharing polite remarks and an interesting observation or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some women of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that queue-based communication is restricted to the occasional weary glance and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague told me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations afterwards that chat tends to break out.

Had I been a female, I’d refrain from on both pleasantries or reticence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to stand in a public line only for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the pure inequity of it. A valuable benchmark for any modern society would be balanced access in wee waiting times. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Male Banter in the Procession

During my time in my line, I endeavoured to get some friendly chat going about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something to the effect of: “Well, this makes an unpleasant variation, isn't it chaps?”

Someone smiled, another seemed nonplussed, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more symptom of modern woes, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, stillness reigned. An individual exited, adjusting his clothing. The group shuffled up a spot. A couple more men took a place at the end of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Exchange

A woman emerged out of the adjacent restroom, all fresh and at ease. It was just fine for some. I grinned apologetically at her, endeavouring to express acknowledgement of this reversed state of affairs. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for support, you bastard. Come back when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and at that point I might give you the time.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She said a word. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I really would not fault her.