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Just before the holidays, I experienced an remarkable incident. I feel it was beneficial for me. This took place at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but this isn't important. The assembled group were solely men, which proves to be significant.

A Strange Situation

The venue was a pub/restaurant enjoying a excellent custom. A lost session was had by all. Good food, good beverages and surprisingly entertaining stories about teeth. As expected, the moment arrived for trips to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, appeared to be absent a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this might have been, but when it was my turn, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a great long one for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Taste of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any lady here. I am acutely cognizant that, for women, having to queue to use a public toilet is standard practice. Repeatedly have I observed women standing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Apart from the hassle of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a whiff of humiliation about standing there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was profoundly bracing to get a taste of it myself, watching the other sex glide through the door while I was forced to stand solemnly in queue with my mates, angling away at anything we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Practice of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a entire conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little familiarity. 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 polled some female friends of my knowledge. The general agreement is that intra-queue communication is confined to the odd exasperated look and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate mentioned it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations later that discussion tends to break out.

Were I a female, I’d waste no time on either small talk or quiet. If I was obliged, over and over, to stand in a shared procession merely for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter injustice of it. A handy benchmark for any modern community would be equal waiting times in toilet waiting times. I’m researching research on this.

Comradely Chat in the Queue

Back in my queue, I tried to get some brotherly banter flowing about this novel situation of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and said something along the lines of: “So, this is an disagreeable difference, doesn’t it chaps?”

One person smiled, a second seemed nonplussed, a third seemed awkward. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was a further symptom of modern woes, woke madness etc. Aside from that, stillness prevailed. An individual exited, adjusting his clothing. The group advanced a spot. A couple more men entered the end of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Interaction

A female wafted out of the neighbouring restroom, all fragrant and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled apologetically at her, attempting to communicate an understanding of this topsy-turvy scenario. Her response was: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you bastard. Return when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and then I might give you the time of day.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She said a word. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I truly could not blame her.