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Shortly before the festive season, I had an extraordinary situation. I think it proved instructive. This happened at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but this isn't important. The assembled group were all blokes, which is relevant.

A Strange Scenario

The venue was a pub/restaurant experiencing a excellent custom. A forgotten daytime was had by all. Nice cuisine, good libations and surprisingly amusing anecdotes about oral health. Inevitably, the moment arrived for visits to the gents. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, seemed to be away a significant period. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it was me next, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line were accustomed to.

An Experience of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any female reader here. I am obviously cognizant that, for females, having to queue to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I witnessed women waiting in a line while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Apart from the hassle of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about waiting there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, observing the women walk straight through the portal while I was compelled to wait patiently in line with my companions, fiddling at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our phones.

The Art of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a entire conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little familiarity. Ladies, I surmise, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, engaging in pleasantries and an engaging insight or two.

On this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that within-the-line communication is limited to the rare exasperated look and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate informed me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations subsequently that discussion tends to start up.

Had I been a female, I’d waste no time on either small talk or silence. If I was obliged, time and again, to queue in a shared procession only for the chance to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the utter unfairness of it. A handy benchmark for any advanced culture would be equal waiting times in toilet queue durations. I’m seeking out data on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Queue

Returning to my queue, I endeavoured to get some male camaraderie started about this new state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and said something like: “So, this makes an disagreeable variation, doesn’t it boys?”

A fellow grinned, another seemed nonplussed, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Another shook his head as if this was yet another symptom of broken Britain, political correctness etc. For the most part, stillness prevailed. A man emerged, adjusting his clothing. The queue moved forward a position. A couple more men entered the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Exchange

A woman wafted out of the next-door restroom, all fresh and at ease. It was just fine for some. I grinned bashfully at her, trying to convey recognition of this reversed situation. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for support, you jerk. Return when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and at that point I may give you the time of day.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She didn’t say nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I really could not blame her.