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In the run-up to the holidays, I experienced an extraordinary situation. I believe it was beneficial for me. This happened at a gathering of some old friends, who are incidentally dentists, but this isn't pertinent. The attending party were exclusively male, which proves to be relevant.

A Novel Situation

The location was a bar and eatery doing a brisk business. A forgotten afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Fine fare, fine drink and surprisingly entertaining anecdotes about oral health. Naturally, the time arrived for trips to the men's room. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, seemed to be away a long time. I didn’t dwell on the reason this might have been, but when it came to me next, the mystery was solved.

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 substantial line for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering knew.

A Taste of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for sympathy from any female reader here. I am fully conscious that, for ladies, having to queue to use a convenience is the norm. How many times have I witnessed women queuing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the annoyance of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about waiting there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, observing the opposite gender glide through the door while I was obliged to stand solemnly in queue with my mates, angling away at anything we had in our pockets and checking our mobile devices.

The Art of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a complete form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant familiarity. Females, I presume, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, sharing polite remarks and an engaging observation or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some female friends of my knowledge. The consensus is that intra-queue interaction is confined to the occasional exasperated look and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate told me it’s merely at the sinks afterwards that discussion tends to start up.

If I was a lady, I’d waste no time on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was obliged, over and over, to wait in a common queue simply for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the sheer injustice of it. A handy measure for any civilised culture would be gender parity in toilet lining-up periods. I’m looking for data on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Queue

Returning to my line, I attempted to get some friendly chat flowing about this unprecedented situation of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something to the effect of: “Well, this is an disagreeable variation, doesn’t it boys?”

A fellow chuckled, someone else appeared confused, a other man seemed awkward. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was one more manifestation of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. For the most part, quiet reigned. An individual exited, zipping up. The queue moved forward a position. A couple more men joined the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Interaction

A woman emerged out of the adjacent toilet, all clean and at ease. It was all right for some. I grinned bashfully at her, endeavouring to convey recognition of this upside-down situation. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you bastard. Return when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and at that point I could give you the time.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She uttered a word. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly would not blame her.