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In the run-up to the holidays, I encountered an extraordinary situation. I think it did me good. This took place at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but it's not important. The present crowd were solely men, which turns out to be key.

A Strange Predicament

The venue was a bar and eatery enjoying a roaring trade. A wasted afternoon was shared by the group. Nice cuisine, fine beverages and unexpectedly entertaining anecdotes about oral health. Inevitably, the time arrived for excursions to the gents. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, seemed to be gone a long time. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it was my go, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a long queue 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 were accustomed to.

An Experience of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect pity from any lady here. I am obviously cognizant that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a convenience is the norm. Repeatedly have I seen women standing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the hassle of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a tinge of humiliation about waiting there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was decidedly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, observing the other sex walk straight through the entrance while I was forced to wait patiently in line with my mates, angling away at something we had in our trouser pockets and checking our phones.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a whole form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant experience. Ladies, I presume, have learned to be quite proficient at it, exchanging small talk and an interesting comment or two.

On this I’ve polled some female friends of my knowledge. The consensus is that intra-queue interaction is confined to the rare exasperated look and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate informed me it’s only at the sinks subsequently that conversation tends to break out.

Were I a female, I’d not spend a moment on both niceties or quiet. If I was compelled, time and again, to queue in a shared procession only for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the pure injustice of it. A useful metric for any advanced culture would be gender parity in urination queue durations. I’m looking for studies on this.

Male Banter in the Procession

Returning to my line, I tried to initiate some male camaraderie going about this novel situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something to the effect of: “Well, this represents an irksome variation, isn't it lads?”

One person grinned, a second looked blank, a other man appeared embarrassed. Yet another shook his head as if this was one more example of a failing society, woke madness etc. Otherwise, quiet reigned. A man came out, adjusting his clothing. The queue moved forward a place. Another two men joined the rear of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Exchange

A woman emerged out of the adjacent restroom, all fresh and at ease. It was just fine for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, endeavouring to convey recognition of this topsy-turvy scenario. She said: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you blighter. Come back when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and at that point I may give you the time.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She uttered nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I honestly would not fault her.