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Shortly before the festive season, I encountered an remarkable incident. I feel it proved instructive. This took place at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dentists, but it's not relevant. The present crowd were exclusively male, which proves to be relevant.

A Novel Situation

The establishment was a tavern enjoying a roaring trade. A wasted session was shared by the group. Fine cuisine, nice libations and remarkably entertaining anecdotes about oral health. Inevitably, the point dawned for excursions to the male facilities. Those who went, I half-noticed, appeared to be gone a considerable while. I didn't contemplate why this could be, but when it came to my go, everything was revealed.

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

A Taste of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely cognizant that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a restroom is standard practice. On countless occasions have I observed women queuing in a row while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

In addition to the inconvenience of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about lingering there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, watching the opposite gender breeze through the entrance while I was forced to wait patiently in queue with my mates, angling away at anything we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our phones.

The Art of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal familiarity. Ladies, I surmise, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, sharing small talk and an notable comment or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that queue-based interaction is restricted to the rare exasperated look and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague informed me it’s only at the hand-washing stations afterwards that discussion tends to break out.

Were I a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either pleasantries or quiet. If I was obliged, over and over, to stand in a public line merely for the chance to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the pure inequity of it. A valuable measure for any modern community would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for research on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Queue

Returning to my queue, I endeavoured to initiate some male camaraderie flowing about this unprecedented situation of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something along the lines of: “So, this is an disagreeable variation, right chaps?”

A fellow smiled, another appeared confused, a other man seemed awkward. Yet another shook his head as if this was yet another manifestation of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Aside from that, stillness reigned. An individual came out, zipping up. The line moved forward a spot. A couple more men took a place at the back of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Moment

A woman glided out of the adjacent toilet, all clean and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed bashfully at her, endeavouring to express acknowledgement of this upside-down situation. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and only then I could give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She said a word. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I really wouldn’t fault her.