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Just before the holidays, I encountered an remarkable incident. I believe it did me good. This happened at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but it's not important. The assembled crowd were solely men, which is significant.

A Strange Predicament

The location was a bar and eatery enjoying a brisk business. A lost session was shared by the group. Nice cuisine, fine drink and unexpectedly entertaining stories about oral health. Inevitably, the time dawned for visits to the men's room. Those who went, I partially registered, appeared to be absent a considerable while. I didn't contemplate why this could be, but when it became my turn, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. An empty space for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Taste of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any female reader here. I am acutely cognizant that, for women, needing to line up to use a convenience is the norm. How many times have I seen women standing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the annoyance of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a whiff of humiliation about waiting there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was truly sobering to get a taste of it myself, observing the other sex breeze through the entrance while I was compelled to line up dutifully in queue with my mates, fiddling at whatever we had in our jackets and checking our mobile devices.

The Art of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a complete conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant knowledge. Ladies, I imagine, have learned to be quite proficient at it, engaging in small talk and an interesting insight or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my circle. The general agreement is that intra-queue communication is restricted to the occasional eye roll and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate told me it’s only at the sinks afterwards that chat tends to begin.

If I was a woman, I’d not spend a moment on both niceties or reticence. If I was compelled, over and over, to wait in a common queue simply for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the pure unfairness of it. A handy metric for any civilised culture would be equal waiting times in toilet waiting times. I’m seeking out research on this.

Male Interaction in the Line

Returning to my queue, I tried to initiate some brotherly banter going about this novel state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and said something to the effect of: “Well, this is an disagreeable variation, doesn’t it lads?”

Someone chuckled, a second looked blank, a other man looked sheepish. Yet another shook his head as if this was one more symptom of broken Britain, political correctness etc. For the most part, silence ensued. Someone emerged, fastening his trousers. The group advanced a place. Two more men joined the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Moment

A woman glided out of the adjacent facility, all fragrant and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I beamed bashfully at her, attempting to express an understanding of this reversed scenario. She said: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you blighter. Return when you’ve done this a hundred more times and only then I could give you the time.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She said nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly could not blame her.