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Just before Christmas, I had an extraordinary incident. I believe it did me good. This took place at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dentists, but this isn't important. The assembled group were exclusively male, which proves to be key.

A Strange Situation

The venue was a bar and eatery doing a excellent custom. A lost session was enjoyed by everyone. Fine food, good beverages and unexpectedly amusing stories about oral health. Naturally, the point came for visits to the gents. Those who departed, I half-noticed, looked to be absent a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it became me next, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. An empty space for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

An Experience of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any lady here. I am acutely aware that, for ladies, having to queue to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

In addition to the inconvenience of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a whiff of indignity about lingering there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was truly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, seeing the opposite gender glide through the portal while I was forced to wait patiently in queue with my companions, fiddling at anything we had in our jackets and consulting our handsets.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little knowledge. Females, I surmise, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in polite remarks and an notable observation or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some female friends of my circle. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is restricted to the occasional weary glance and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate mentioned it’s exclusively at the sinks subsequently that chat tends to break out.

Had I been a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either niceties or silence. If I was forced, time and again, to stand in a public line merely for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the pure injustice of it. A valuable measure for any civilised community would be gender parity in urination waiting times. I’m seeking out data on this.

Male Chat in the Procession

Back in my line, I attempted to spark some brotherly banter started about this new situation of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something to the effect of: “Ah, this represents an irksome variation, right boys?”

A fellow smiled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third individual looked sheepish. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more manifestation of a failing society, political correctness etc. For the most part, silence reigned. A man emerged, fastening his trousers. The queue moved forward a position. Two more men joined the rear of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Exchange

A female emerged out of the next-door toilet, all fragrant and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed bashfully at her, trying to convey an understanding of this upside-down situation. Her response was: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you bastard. Return when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and only then I may give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She said a word. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I truly would not blame her.