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Shortly before Christmas, I had an extraordinary incident. I think it was beneficial for me. This happened at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dentists, but it's not relevant. The attending party were all blokes, which proves to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The venue was a tavern doing a brisk business. A lost afternoon was had by all. Nice fare, fine drink and unexpectedly entertaining tales about oral health. Inevitably, the point arrived for trips to the men's room. Those who went, I half-noticed, looked to be gone a significant period. I didn't contemplate why this could be, but when it became me next, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Taste of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any lady here. I am obviously aware that, for women, being forced to wait to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I observed women waiting in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Apart from the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of humiliation about lingering there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was profoundly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the other sex walk straight through the entrance while I was compelled to line up dutifully in queue with my fellow fellas, angling away at anything we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Genre of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a whole conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant knowledge. Women, I surmise, have learned to be quite proficient at it, engaging in pleasantries and an notable comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my circle. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is restricted to the occasional weary glance and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague told me it’s merely at the sinks later that conversation tends to break out.

Had I been a lady, I’d refrain from on either small talk or reticence. If I was forced, over and over, to wait in a common queue merely for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the utter inequity of it. A valuable metric for any modern culture would be equal waiting times in urination queue durations. I’m researching research on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Procession

Returning to my wait, I endeavoured to initiate some male camaraderie flowing about this new circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and said something along the lines of: “Well, this represents an disagreeable variation, doesn’t it lads?”

Someone smiled, another looked blank, a third individual looked sheepish. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further example of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Otherwise, stillness ensued. A man exited, zipping up. The line shuffled up a spot. Another two men took a place at the end of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Interaction

A female wafted out of the next-door toilet, all fragrant and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed bashfully at her, trying to communicate an understanding of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you bastard. Return when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and only then I may give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She uttered a word. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I truly wouldn’t blame her.