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Just before the festive season, I experienced an extraordinary incident. I feel it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but it's not pertinent. The assembled party were exclusively male, which is relevant.

A Novel Situation

The establishment was a tavern enjoying a roaring trade. A lost daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Nice food, good libations and surprisingly entertaining tales about oral health. Naturally, the moment dawned for visits to the men's room. Those who departed, I partially registered, looked to be away a significant period. I didn't contemplate the reason this might have been, but when it was my go, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Taste of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any woman here. I am fully conscious that, for females, having to queue to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I seen women waiting in a row while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Beyond the annoyance of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of humiliation about waiting there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was truly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, observing the other sex glide through the portal while I was forced to stand solemnly in line with my fellow fellas, fiddling at something we had in our pockets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Art of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a complete conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal familiarity. Ladies, I imagine, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in small talk and an engaging insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my circle. The general agreement is that queue-based dialogue is confined to the odd exasperated look and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate mentioned it’s merely at the sinks afterwards that discussion tends to start up.

Were I a woman, I’d waste no time on both small talk or reticence. If I was forced, over and over, to wait in a shared procession simply for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the sheer injustice of it. A handy benchmark for any advanced society would be equal waiting times in urination lining-up periods. I’m researching data on this.

Male Chat in the Queue

Returning to my line, I tried to get some friendly chat flowing about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something like: “Ah, this is an unpleasant difference, doesn’t it boys?”

One person grinned, a second looked blank, a third looked sheepish. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more example of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. For the most part, stillness reigned. A man exited, fastening his trousers. The queue shuffled up a spot. Two more men entered the end of it. I sighed.

A Silent Interaction

A female glided out of the neighbouring restroom, all fragrant and at ease. It was just fine for some. I grinned bashfully at her, attempting to express an understanding of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you jerk. Return when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and at that point I may give you the time.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She uttered anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I really could not fault her.