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Just before Christmas, I encountered an remarkable episode. I think it did me good. This took place at a meeting of several mates, who happen to be dentists, but it's not relevant. The assembled party were exclusively male, which proves to be significant.

A Strange Situation

The venue was a pub/restaurant doing a brisk business. A lost session was enjoyed by everyone. Good food, fine beverages and surprisingly entertaining anecdotes about oral health. Naturally, the moment came for excursions to the male facilities. Those who went, I half-noticed, seemed to be away a long time. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it came to my turn, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue knew.

A Sample of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for pity from any female reader here. I am obviously conscious that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a restroom is the norm. Repeatedly have I observed women queuing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

In addition to the hassle of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about standing there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, observing the other sex breeze through the door while I was forced to stand solemnly with others with my fellow fellas, angling away at something we had in our pockets and checking our phones.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a complete conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little knowledge. Ladies, I imagine, have become adept to be rather good at it, sharing polite remarks and an engaging observation or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my circle. The prevailing view is that within-the-line communication is restricted to the rare eye roll and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate told me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations subsequently that discussion tends to begin.

Were I a woman, I’d waste no time on either niceties or silence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to queue in a public line simply for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the sheer unfairness of it. A handy measure for any modern society would be gender parity in toilet lining-up periods. I’m looking for data on this.

Male Interaction in the Procession

During my time in my wait, I tried to get some brotherly banter started about this novel circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and said something like: “So, this makes an disagreeable difference, doesn’t it boys?”

Someone smiled, a second appeared confused, a third looked sheepish. A further person shook his head as if this was yet another symptom of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Otherwise, silence reigned. Someone exited, zipping up. The group advanced a place. A couple more men entered the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Exchange

A female wafted out of the neighbouring toilet, all clean and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed bashfully at her, endeavouring to express acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy scenario. She said: “Don't come to me for support, you jerk. Come back when you’ve done this on a regular basis and only then I might give you the time.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She didn’t say nothing. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I really could not fault her.