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Just before the festive season, I experienced an unusual episode. I feel it was beneficial for me. This took place at a gathering of some old friends, who happen to be dental professionals, but this isn't relevant. The assembled group were exclusively male, which turns out to be relevant.

A Strange Situation

The venue was a tavern doing a roaring trade. A wasted daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Fine cuisine, good drink and unexpectedly amusing anecdotes about oral health. Inevitably, the time came for trips to the male facilities. Those who departed, I half-noticed, looked to be gone a long time. I didn't ponder why this might have been, but when it became me next, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Sample of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for sympathy from any lady here. I am obviously conscious that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a convenience is the norm. On countless occasions have I seen women waiting in a row while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the annoyance of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a hint of embarrassment about standing there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, seeing the opposite gender walk straight through the portal while I was obliged to stand solemnly with others with my companions, fiddling at anything we had in our jackets and consulting our phones.

The Genre of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a entire conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant experience. Ladies, I surmise, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, engaging in pleasantries and an notable 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 weary glance and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague mentioned it’s merely at the sinks later that discussion tends to begin.

If I was a woman, I’d refrain from on both niceties or silence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to wait in a common queue merely for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the sheer unfairness of it. A useful benchmark for any modern society would be gender parity in wee lining-up periods. I’m seeking out research on this.

Male Chat in the Procession

During my time in my queue, I tried to spark some male camaraderie started about this unprecedented situation of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and said something to the effect of: “Ah, this represents an disagreeable variation, doesn’t it chaps?”

A fellow grinned, another looked blank, a other man looked sheepish. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was a further example of modern woes, woke madness etc. Otherwise, quiet reigned. An individual came out, adjusting his clothing. The group advanced a position. Another two men took a place at the back of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Moment

A lady wafted out of the neighbouring toilet, all fresh and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I beamed bashfully at her, attempting to communicate an understanding of this upside-down state of affairs. She said: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you bastard. Come back when you’ve done this another hundred times and then I could give you the time.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She didn’t say a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I really wouldn’t fault her.