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Just before the holidays, I experienced an remarkable episode. I believe it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a meeting of several mates, who are incidentally dental professionals, but this isn't relevant. The attending party were solely men, which is relevant.

A Novel Predicament

The venue was a tavern doing a roaring trade. A forgotten daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Fine cuisine, nice libations and unexpectedly amusing stories about oral health. As expected, the point arrived for excursions to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, looked to be away a considerable while. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it was my go, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Taste of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect empathy from any lady here. I am fully conscious that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I seen women standing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Beyond the annoyance of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a hint of embarrassment about waiting there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was profoundly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, observing the other sex walk straight through the portal while I was compelled to line up dutifully with others with my fellow fellas, fiddling at anything we had in our jackets and checking our mobile devices.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little knowledge. Women, I surmise, have learned to be quite proficient at it, exchanging pleasantries and an notable observation or two.

On this I’ve polled some women of my knowledge. The consensus is that queue-based communication is restricted to the occasional exasperated look and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate mentioned it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations later that discussion tends to begin.

Had I been a female, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or quiet. If I was obliged, time and again, to stand in a common queue merely for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the pure unfairness of it. A handy metric for any advanced society would be balanced access in toilet waiting times. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Male Banter in the Line

During my time in my line, I tried to get some friendly chat going about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something along the lines of: “So, this represents an irksome variation, isn't it chaps?”

One person chuckled, another seemed nonplussed, a third appeared embarrassed. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was one more example of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, quiet reigned. An individual came out, fastening his trousers. The group moved forward a spot. A couple more men entered the back of it. I sighed.

A Silent Moment

A lady glided out of the neighbouring restroom, all fragrant and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled apologetically at her, trying to convey recognition of this topsy-turvy scenario. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you bastard. Come back when you’ve done this another hundred times and at that point I may give you the time.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She uttered nothing. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly wouldn’t fault her.