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Just before the festive season, I experienced an extraordinary incident. I think it proved instructive. This occurred at a gathering of several mates, who happen to be dentists, but this isn't pertinent. The attending party were solely men, which is key.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The venue was a tavern enjoying a brisk business. A forgotten session was had by all. Fine cuisine, nice libations and surprisingly humorous anecdotes about dentistry. Naturally, the point came for visits to the gents. Those who went, I vaguely observed, appeared to be gone a long time. I didn't contemplate why this could be, but when it became my go, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line were accustomed to.

A Sample of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any female reader here. I am fully conscious that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a convenience is standard practice. On countless occasions have I witnessed women queuing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

In addition to the inconvenience of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of humiliation about waiting there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was profoundly sobering to get a taste of it myself, observing the women breeze through the entrance while I was obliged to stand solemnly in line with my mates, angling away at anything we had in our jackets and scrolling through our phones.

The Art of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a whole conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal familiarity. Females, I imagine, have learned to be rather good at it, engaging in polite remarks and an engaging observation or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some female friends of my knowledge. The general agreement is that intra-queue communication is limited to the occasional weary glance and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague mentioned it’s only at the hand-washing stations subsequently that chat tends to break out.

Had I been a lady, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or reticence. If I was compelled, over and over, to queue in a shared procession only for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the utter unfairness of it. A useful benchmark for any advanced society would be equal waiting times in toilet waiting times. I’m researching data on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Queue

During my time in my wait, I tried to spark some male camaraderie started about this new situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something like: “So, this is an unpleasant difference, isn't it lads?”

Someone smiled, someone else looked blank, a third individual looked sheepish. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more symptom of a failing society, woke madness etc. Aside from that, quiet prevailed. An individual emerged, zipping up. The group advanced a position. Two more men entered the back of it. I sighed.

A Silent Moment

A female emerged out of the neighbouring toilet, all clean and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled apologetically at her, attempting to convey acknowledgement of this upside-down state of affairs. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you bastard. Return when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and only then I might give you the time of day.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She didn’t say anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I really could not censure her.