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Shortly before the festive season, I had an remarkable situation. I believe it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but it's not relevant. The present party were exclusively male, which is key.

A Novel Predicament

The establishment was a pub/restaurant doing a roaring trade. A forgotten afternoon was had by all. Nice fare, nice libations and unexpectedly amusing stories about oral health. As expected, the point arrived for trips to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, seemed to be absent a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on the reason this might have been, but when it became my go, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Taste of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for sympathy from any woman here. I am obviously conscious that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a convenience is the norm. How many times have I seen women waiting in a row while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

In addition to the inconvenience of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of indignity about standing there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, seeing the other sex breeze through the portal while I was obliged to stand solemnly in queue with my mates, angling away at whatever we had in our pockets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Art of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a entire form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little experience. Females, I imagine, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, sharing small talk and an interesting comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some women of my circle. The consensus is that within-the-line communication is limited to the occasional eye roll and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate mentioned it’s only at the washbasins subsequently that chat tends to break out.

Were I a woman, I’d refrain from on either niceties or reticence. If I was forced, over and over, to wait in a public line only for the chance to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the sheer injustice of it. A useful metric for any civilised community would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for studies on this.

Male Banter in the Procession

Back in my wait, I tried to spark some male camaraderie going about this new situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and said something along the lines of: “Well, this makes an unpleasant variation, right chaps?”

One person grinned, someone else looked blank, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Yet another shook his head as if this was one more manifestation of broken Britain, woke madness etc. For the most part, silence reigned. A man emerged, zipping up. The line moved forward a position. A couple more men joined the back of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Moment

A female emerged out of the adjacent facility, all fragrant and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, trying to convey acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy situation. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for support, you blighter. Come back when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and then I may give you the time.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She uttered anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I honestly would not fault her.