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Shortly before the holidays, I encountered an extraordinary episode. I believe it was beneficial for me. This happened at a gathering of several mates, who happen to be dental professionals, but it's not relevant. The assembled group were all blokes, which turns out to be key.

A Strange Scenario

The location was a tavern enjoying a roaring trade. A forgotten session was had by all. Good food, good libations and remarkably amusing anecdotes about teeth. As expected, the time dawned for visits to the gents. Those who went, I partially registered, looked to be away a long time. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it became me next, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men's. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line knew.

A Sample of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any female reader here. I am acutely cognizant that, for females, having to queue to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I observed women standing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

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 generally don’t have to endure. It was truly bracing to get a taste of it myself, seeing the other sex breeze through the portal while I was compelled to line up dutifully in queue with my companions, looking distractedly at something we had in our pockets and checking our handsets.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a entire form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal experience. Ladies, I surmise, have learned to be rather good at it, exchanging polite remarks and an interesting observation or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some female friends of my circle. The consensus is that within-the-line dialogue is limited to the occasional weary glance and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate told me it’s merely at the washbasins later that conversation tends to begin.

Had I been a lady, I’d refrain from on both small talk or reticence. If I was forced, time and again, to wait in a common queue merely for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the utter unfairness of it. A handy metric for any advanced culture would be gender parity in toilet waiting times. I’m researching studies on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Procession

Back in my wait, I attempted to initiate some male camaraderie going about this unprecedented situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something to the effect of: “So, this represents an irksome variation, doesn’t it chaps?”

One person chuckled, another looked blank, a third individual looked sheepish. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was yet another symptom of modern woes, woke madness etc. Otherwise, quiet ensued. An individual came out, adjusting his clothing. The line shuffled up a place. A couple more men took a place at the back of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Moment

A female wafted out of the neighbouring restroom, all fragrant and at ease. It was just fine for some. I beamed bashfully at her, attempting to convey an understanding of this reversed state of affairs. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you bastard. Return when you’ve done this another hundred times and only then I could give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She didn’t say nothing. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I really would not fault her.