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In the run-up to the festive season, I had an remarkable episode. I feel it was beneficial for me. This happened at a gathering of some old friends, who happen to be dental professionals, but that’s not relevant. The assembled party were exclusively male, which proves to be relevant.

A Strange Predicament

The establishment was a pub/restaurant enjoying a roaring trade. A wasted session was enjoyed by everyone. Good fare, good beverages and remarkably amusing stories about oral health. Inevitably, the moment arrived for visits to the men's room. Those who departed, I half-noticed, appeared to be absent a considerable while. I didn't contemplate why this might have been, but when it came to me next, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering recognised.

An Experience of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any female reader here. I am acutely conscious that, for females, having to queue to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I seen women standing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Beyond the inconvenience of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about lingering there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was truly bracing to have a sample of it myself, seeing the women breeze through the door while I was forced to stand solemnly in line with my companions, fiddling at something we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a complete conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant familiarity. Women, I surmise, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, exchanging small talk and an interesting comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some women of my circle. The general agreement is that intra-queue communication is limited to the occasional exasperated look and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague told me it’s merely at the washbasins subsequently that conversation tends to break out.

If I was a woman, I’d refrain from on both small talk or silence. If I was obliged, over and over, to stand in a shared procession merely for the chance to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the pure injustice of it. A useful benchmark for any civilised community would be equal waiting times in toilet lining-up periods. I’m seeking out research on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Line

During my time in my line, I tried to spark some male camaraderie flowing about this novel situation of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something to the effect of: “Ah, this makes an irksome change, isn't it boys?”

One person grinned, a second looked blank, a other man appeared embarrassed. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was one more symptom of modern woes, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, silence ensued. Someone emerged, zipping up. The group moved forward a place. Another two men took a place at the end of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Exchange

A woman glided out of the neighbouring restroom, all clean and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned apologetically at her, trying to communicate acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy situation. She said: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you bastard. Come back when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and then I could give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She said a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly wouldn’t fault her.