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Just before the festive season, I encountered an remarkable episode. I think it did me good. This took place at a get-together of some old friends, who are incidentally dentists, but that’s not important. The assembled crowd were solely men, which proves to be significant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The establishment was a tavern doing a excellent custom. A wasted afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Good cuisine, nice drink and unexpectedly humorous tales about oral health. Inevitably, the time came for visits to the men's room. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, looked to be gone a considerable while. I didn't contemplate the reason this was, but when it was my go, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men's. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue knew.

A Taste of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect pity from any lady here. I am obviously cognizant that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a restroom is the norm. On countless occasions have I witnessed women queuing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the hassle of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of indignity about standing there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, watching the other sex breeze through the door while I was compelled to line up dutifully in queue with my companions, fiddling at anything we had in our jackets and checking our phones.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little experience. Ladies, I imagine, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, exchanging small talk and an interesting comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some female friends of my circle. The prevailing view is that within-the-line communication is confined to the rare exasperated look and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate informed me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations subsequently that discussion tends to break out.

Had I been a woman, I’d waste no time on both small talk or quiet. If I was compelled, over and over, to stand in a common queue simply for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the pure unfairness of it. A valuable measure for any modern community would be balanced access in wee queue durations. I’m researching research on this.

Male Banter in the Line

During my time in my wait, I endeavoured to get some friendly chat flowing about this new situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something like: “So, this is an unpleasant change, isn't it chaps?”

A fellow smiled, another seemed nonplussed, a third appeared embarrassed. A further person shook his head as if this was a further manifestation of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Otherwise, silence prevailed. Someone exited, adjusting his clothing. The group advanced a place. Another two men joined the end of it. I sighed.

A Silent Interaction

A woman emerged out of the next-door facility, all fragrant and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned bashfully at her, endeavouring to convey an understanding of this upside-down state of affairs. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve done this another hundred times and at that point I may give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She said nothing. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I truly wouldn’t fault her.