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Just before the festive season, I had an extraordinary episode. I think it was beneficial for me. This happened at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but it's not important. The assembled party were all blokes, which turns out to be relevant.

A Strange Predicament

The venue was a bar and eatery experiencing a brisk business. A lost session was enjoyed by everyone. Nice food, good libations and unexpectedly amusing anecdotes about dentistry. As expected, the time came for visits to the male facilities. Those who went, I vaguely observed, seemed to be gone a long time. I didn't ponder why this could be, but when it was me next, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men's. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Sample of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely cognizant that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is the norm. On countless occasions have I observed women standing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

In addition to the hassle of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a tinge of humiliation about waiting there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was truly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, watching the women glide through the portal while I was forced to line up dutifully with others with my mates, angling away at something we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Practice of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a entire form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant experience. Ladies, I imagine, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, sharing polite remarks and an engaging insight or two.

On this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The consensus is that within-the-line communication is restricted to the rare eye roll and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate informed me it’s exclusively at the washbasins afterwards that conversation tends to start up.

Had I been a woman, I’d refrain from on either pleasantries or quiet. If I was forced, time and again, to wait in a shared procession simply for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the utter injustice of it. A useful measure for any modern society would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for research on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Queue

Returning to my line, I attempted to initiate some male camaraderie flowing about this new state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something like: “So, this is an irksome difference, isn't it chaps?”

Someone smiled, a second appeared confused, a other man seemed awkward. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more symptom of broken Britain, woke madness etc. For the most part, stillness reigned. An individual exited, fastening his trousers. The line moved forward a place. Another two men joined the back of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Exchange

A lady wafted out of the next-door facility, all fresh and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I beamed bashfully at her, attempting to communicate an understanding of this reversed state of affairs. She said: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you bastard. Return when you’ve endured this another hundred times and then I could give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She uttered nothing. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I really wouldn’t fault her.