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In the run-up to the festive season, I encountered an remarkable episode. I believe it proved instructive. This took place at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dental professionals, but that’s not pertinent. The assembled group were solely men, which proves to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The location was a pub/restaurant enjoying a brisk business. A lost daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Good cuisine, fine drink and remarkably amusing tales about teeth. Inevitably, the moment came for trips to the men's room. Those who departed, I partially registered, looked to be gone a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it was my go, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line were accustomed to.

A Sample of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for sympathy from any female reader here. I am obviously conscious that, for women, being forced to wait to use a convenience is standard practice. How many times have I witnessed women queuing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Beyond the annoyance of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a hint of humiliation about waiting there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was decidedly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the opposite gender walk straight through the portal while I was obliged to line up dutifully in queue with my mates, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our jackets and checking our handsets.

The Genre of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a entire conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant knowledge. Females, I imagine, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in polite remarks and an engaging insight or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some women of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that intra-queue dialogue is limited to the occasional weary glance and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague informed me it’s only at the sinks afterwards that chat tends to start up.

Had I been a lady, I’d refrain from on either small talk or quiet. If I was obliged, over and over, to queue in a public line only for the chance to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the sheer unfairness of it. A handy measure for any civilised culture would be equal waiting times in wee queue durations. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Comradely Banter in the Procession

During my time in my wait, I attempted to spark some friendly chat flowing about this new situation of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something along the lines of: “Well, this represents an unpleasant change, isn't it chaps?”

One person chuckled, another looked blank, a third individual appeared embarrassed. A further person shook his head as if this was one more manifestation of modern woes, woke madness etc. Otherwise, silence ensued. Someone exited, zipping up. The queue advanced a place. Two more men took a place at the back of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Moment

A woman wafted out of the neighbouring toilet, all fragrant and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, trying to convey recognition of this reversed situation. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and only then I might give you the time.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She said anything. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I truly wouldn’t fault her.