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Shortly before the holidays, I experienced an unusual incident. I think it was beneficial for me. This happened at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dental professionals, but it's not pertinent. The assembled crowd were exclusively male, which turns out to be significant.

A Strange Scenario

The venue was a bar and eatery experiencing a roaring trade. A lost session was had by all. Nice cuisine, fine drink and remarkably entertaining anecdotes about teeth. Naturally, the time arrived for excursions to the men's room. Those who departed, I partially registered, seemed to be absent a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it was my go, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a great long one for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line were accustomed to.

An Experience of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for sympathy from any female reader here. I am fully cognizant that, for females, needing to line up to use a restroom is the norm. On countless occasions have I observed women standing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Apart from the inconvenience of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a hint of indignity about lingering there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, observing the women walk straight through the door while I was compelled to line up dutifully in queue with my mates, looking distractedly at anything we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our phones.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a whole form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal experience. Women, I surmise, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, engaging in pleasantries and an engaging insight or two.

On this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The consensus is that within-the-line dialogue is confined to the odd weary glance and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague told me it’s merely at the washbasins subsequently that conversation tends to start up.

Had I been a female, I’d not spend a moment on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was compelled, time and again, to queue in a shared procession merely for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the utter inequity of it. A handy metric for any advanced society would be gender parity in wee lining-up periods. I’m researching studies on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Line

Returning to my line, I attempted to get some friendly chat going about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and said something along the lines of: “Well, this is an irksome difference, right chaps?”

One person grinned, a second seemed nonplussed, a third looked sheepish. Another rolled his eyes as if this was one more symptom of broken Britain, political correctness etc. For the most part, stillness prevailed. Someone exited, adjusting his clothing. The line shuffled up a place. Another two men entered the end of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Moment

A lady emerged out of the adjacent toilet, all fragrant and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, endeavouring to convey acknowledgement of this upside-down state of affairs. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you bastard. Return when you’ve done this a hundred more times and only then I could give you the time.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She didn’t say nothing. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I honestly could not censure her.