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Just before the festive season, I had an extraordinary episode. I believe it proved instructive. This occurred at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dental professionals, but it's not relevant. The present group were all blokes, which is relevant.

A Novel Scenario

The venue was a pub/restaurant enjoying a roaring trade. A lost afternoon was shared by the group. Fine cuisine, nice drink and unexpectedly humorous anecdotes about oral health. Naturally, the moment arrived for trips to the men's room. Those who went, I half-noticed, appeared to be away a long time. I didn't ponder why this could be, but when it became me next, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering knew.

A Taste of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any lady here. I am obviously cognizant that, for females, needing to line up to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I witnessed women standing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Apart from the hassle of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of humiliation about standing there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was decidedly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, observing the other sex walk straight through the door while I was compelled to stand solemnly with others with my mates, angling away at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Practice of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a entire form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant experience. Females, I surmise, have developed skills to be rather good at it, engaging in pleasantries and an interesting observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some female friends of my circle. The general agreement is that within-the-line communication is confined to the rare exasperated look and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate mentioned it’s exclusively at the sinks afterwards that chat tends to start up.

Were I a woman, I’d not spend a moment on both pleasantries or reticence. If I was compelled, time and again, to wait in a common queue only for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the pure unfairness of it. A useful measure for any civilised community would be gender parity in urination lining-up periods. I’m seeking out data on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Line

Returning to my queue, I endeavoured to spark some male camaraderie started about this unprecedented situation of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something like: “Well, this makes an disagreeable difference, doesn’t it lads?”

Someone chuckled, a second seemed nonplussed, a third looked sheepish. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further example of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, quiet ensued. An individual came out, fastening his trousers. The group moved forward a spot. A couple more men entered the rear of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Exchange

A woman emerged out of the adjacent toilet, all fragrant and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I grinned apologetically at her, endeavouring to convey acknowledgement of this upside-down situation. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you blighter. Come back when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and then I might give you the time of day.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She uttered nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I truly would not fault her.