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Shortly before the festive season, I encountered an extraordinary situation. I believe it did me good. This happened at a gathering of some old friends, who are incidentally dental professionals, but this isn't relevant. The attending party were exclusively male, which turns out to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The venue was a bar and eatery experiencing a excellent custom. A lost daytime was had by all. Nice fare, nice libations and surprisingly entertaining tales about teeth. Naturally, the moment came for visits to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, seemed to be absent a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on why this might have been, but when it was me next, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line knew.

A Sample of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any woman here. I am acutely conscious that, for women, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is the norm. Repeatedly have I observed women queuing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the hassle of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about lingering there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was decidedly bracing to have a sample of it myself, observing the women walk straight through the portal while I was obliged to stand solemnly in line with my mates, angling away at anything we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant knowledge. Women, I surmise, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in small talk and an interesting observation or two.

On this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that within-the-line interaction is restricted to the rare exasperated look and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate informed me it’s merely at the sinks later that chat tends to start up.

Had I been a woman, I’d refrain from on both niceties or quiet. If I was compelled, over and over, to wait in a shared procession merely for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the sheer injustice of it. A valuable metric for any advanced society would be equal waiting times in urination lining-up periods. I’m seeking out data on this.

Male Interaction in the Line

Back in my queue, I tried to get some male camaraderie flowing about this unprecedented situation of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something to the effect of: “Ah, this makes an unpleasant variation, right boys?”

A fellow grinned, someone else appeared confused, a other man looked sheepish. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further symptom of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Otherwise, silence reigned. Someone came out, fastening his trousers. The group advanced a spot. Another two men joined the back of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Exchange

A lady emerged out of the adjacent facility, all fresh and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled bashfully at her, trying to convey recognition of this upside-down scenario. She said: “Don’t look to me for support, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve endured this another hundred times and only then I may give you the time of day.”

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