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Shortly before the festive season, I experienced an extraordinary incident. I believe it was beneficial for me. This happened at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dentists, but this isn't relevant. The assembled group were exclusively male, which turns out to be significant.

A Novel Situation

The location was a bar and eatery doing a excellent custom. A wasted afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Good cuisine, fine libations and surprisingly humorous anecdotes about oral health. As expected, the point came for excursions to the gents. Those who departed, I half-noticed, seemed to be gone a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this might have been, but when it came to my turn, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line were accustomed to.

A Taste of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for sympathy from any female reader here. I am fully cognizant that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is the norm. How many times have I seen women standing in a row while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Beyond the hassle of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a hint of embarrassment about standing there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was truly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the women breeze through the door while I was forced to wait patiently in queue with my fellow fellas, angling away at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Art of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a whole form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal knowledge. Women, I imagine, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, exchanging small talk and an notable comment or two.

On this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my circle. The consensus is that queue-based communication is limited to the occasional exasperated look and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate informed me it’s merely at the washbasins subsequently that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or silence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to wait in a public line only for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the sheer injustice of it. A handy metric for any civilised community would be gender parity in urination queue durations. I’m seeking out data on this.

Male Interaction in the Procession

Back in my line, I tried to get some male camaraderie started about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something along the lines of: “Well, this is an disagreeable change, isn't it chaps?”

One person smiled, another looked blank, a third seemed awkward. Another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another symptom of a failing society, woke madness etc. For the most part, silence prevailed. An individual exited, adjusting his clothing. The line shuffled up a spot. A couple more men joined the end of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Interaction

A lady wafted out of the neighbouring facility, all fragrant and at ease. It was all right for some. I beamed apologetically at her, attempting to communicate an understanding of this reversed situation. She said: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you bastard. Come back when you’ve done this a hundred more times and at that point I might give you the time.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She uttered anything. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I really would not blame her.