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In the run-up to the holidays, I encountered an unusual situation. I think it did me good. This happened at a meeting of several mates, who happen to be dentists, but it's not relevant. The attending group were all blokes, which proves to be significant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The location was a tavern experiencing a brisk business. A wasted session was enjoyed by everyone. Good fare, nice libations and remarkably amusing tales about teeth. Naturally, the moment dawned for trips to the male facilities. Those who went, I half-noticed, seemed to be away a long time. I didn’t dwell on why this was, but when it came to my go, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line knew.

A Taste of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect pity from any female reader here. I am acutely conscious that, for women, having to queue to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I seen women queuing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Beyond the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a hint of embarrassment about standing there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, watching the women walk straight through the portal while I was forced to line up dutifully in line with my fellow fellas, fiddling at whatever we had in our jackets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Art of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant knowledge. Ladies, I imagine, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging polite remarks and an notable comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some female friends of my circle. The consensus is that within-the-line interaction is restricted to the rare exasperated look and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague informed me it’s exclusively at the washbasins afterwards that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or quiet. If I was forced, repeatedly, to queue in a common queue simply for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter unfairness of it. A handy benchmark for any civilised community would be equal waiting times in wee waiting times. I’m seeking out data on this.

Male Interaction in the Line

During my time in my queue, I attempted to get some friendly chat started about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and said something along the lines of: “Well, this represents an irksome variation, doesn’t it boys?”

One person smiled, someone else appeared confused, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further manifestation of broken Britain, woke madness etc. For the most part, stillness ensued. Someone exited, fastening his trousers. The queue advanced a place. Another two men joined the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Moment

A lady glided out of the neighbouring facility, all fresh and at ease. It was just fine for some. I beamed apologetically at her, attempting to convey acknowledgement of this reversed state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you jerk. Come back when you’ve done this a hundred more times and then I may give you the time.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I truly would not blame her.