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Just before the festive season, I experienced an unusual incident. I feel it did me good. This happened at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but that’s not important. The assembled group were all blokes, which is relevant.

A Strange Predicament

The location was a pub/restaurant enjoying a roaring trade. A forgotten afternoon was had by all. Nice food, fine drink and remarkably amusing tales about teeth. Naturally, the point dawned for trips to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, appeared to be away a long time. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it came to my turn, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line knew.

A Taste of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely aware that, for females, having to queue to use a restroom is the norm. On countless occasions have I observed women waiting in a line while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Beyond the inconvenience of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about waiting there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was truly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the women glide through the door while I was forced to stand solemnly with others with my mates, looking distractedly at anything we had in our jackets and checking our phones.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a entire conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal knowledge. Females, I surmise, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, exchanging small talk and an notable comment or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some women of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that intra-queue dialogue is limited to the odd eye roll and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate informed me it’s exclusively at the washbasins afterwards that discussion tends to begin.

Were I a lady, I’d refrain from on both niceties or silence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to stand in a public line simply for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the sheer inequity of it. A valuable metric for any civilised culture would be balanced access in toilet waiting times. I’m researching data on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Queue

During my time in my wait, I endeavoured to spark some brotherly banter started about this new circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something to the effect of: “Ah, this represents an unpleasant variation, isn't it boys?”

One person chuckled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third appeared embarrassed. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was a further symptom of modern woes, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, stillness ensued. A man came out, fastening his trousers. The line moved forward a position. Another two men entered the rear of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Moment

A female emerged out of the next-door toilet, all fragrant and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I smiled apologetically at her, attempting to communicate acknowledgement of this reversed situation. She said: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and then I could give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She uttered anything. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I truly would not censure her.