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Just before the festive season, I had an unusual incident. I think it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a get-together of several mates, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but that’s not relevant. The present crowd were all blokes, which turns out to be significant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The venue was a pub/restaurant experiencing a excellent custom. A forgotten session was shared by the group. Fine food, good drink and remarkably humorous stories about oral health. As expected, the moment arrived for excursions to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, appeared to be absent a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this was, but when it became me next, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line knew.

A Taste of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any female reader here. I am fully aware that, for women, needing to line up to use a restroom is the norm. Repeatedly have I observed women waiting in a row while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the inconvenience of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a whiff of indignity about standing there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was profoundly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, watching the women walk straight through the portal while I was obliged to line up dutifully in line with my mates, angling away at something we had in our pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a whole conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little experience. Females, I imagine, have learned to be quite proficient at it, exchanging small talk and an engaging insight or two.

On this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my circle. The consensus is that queue-based interaction is restricted to the rare exasperated look and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate informed me it’s only at the washbasins subsequently that discussion tends to break out.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on either niceties or reticence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to wait in a shared procession simply for the chance to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the sheer injustice of it. A handy measure for any modern culture would be equal waiting times in toilet lining-up periods. I’m researching research on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Queue

Returning to my wait, I tried to get some friendly chat going about this new situation of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something to the effect of: “Ah, this represents an disagreeable difference, doesn’t it lads?”

A fellow grinned, a second appeared confused, a third individual looked sheepish. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was yet another manifestation of a failing society, woke madness etc. Aside from that, quiet reigned. An individual came out, adjusting his clothing. The group shuffled up a place. Two more men entered the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Moment

A lady wafted out of the adjacent facility, all fragrant and at ease. It was all right for some. I beamed apologetically at her, attempting to communicate recognition of this reversed situation. She said: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you blighter. Come back when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and then I may give you the time of day.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She didn’t say anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I really could not blame her.