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Shortly before the holidays, I had an extraordinary incident. I think it did me good. This occurred at a get-together of some old friends, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but this isn't pertinent. The attending party were solely men, which turns out to be significant.

A Novel Scenario

The establishment was a pub/restaurant enjoying a roaring trade. A wasted afternoon was had by all. Fine fare, nice libations and unexpectedly entertaining anecdotes about oral health. Naturally, the point arrived for visits to the male facilities. Those who departed, I half-noticed, looked to be away a long time. I didn’t dwell on the reason this might have been, but when it came to my go, everything was revealed.

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

An Experience of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any female reader here. I am obviously cognizant that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I seen women queuing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the hassle of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of humiliation about lingering there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was truly sobering to have a sample of it myself, seeing the opposite gender breeze through the portal while I was obliged to wait patiently in line with my fellow fellas, angling away at something we had in our jackets and checking our mobile devices.

The Genre of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal experience. Ladies, I imagine, have become adept to be rather good at it, exchanging polite remarks and an notable comment or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The consensus is that intra-queue communication is confined to the rare weary glance and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate informed me it’s only at the hand-washing stations later that discussion tends to start up.

Were I a lady, I’d waste no time on either niceties or reticence. If I was obliged, time and again, to stand in a public line only for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the pure unfairness of it. A valuable benchmark for any civilised society would be gender parity in toilet queue durations. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Queue

Returning to my wait, I attempted to initiate some male camaraderie going about this new circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and said something like: “Ah, this makes an irksome change, isn't it lads?”

Someone grinned, a second appeared confused, a third individual seemed awkward. Another shook his head as if this was a further symptom of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. For the most part, silence reigned. A man emerged, adjusting his clothing. The line advanced a spot. Another two men took a place at the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Interaction

A woman emerged out of the next-door restroom, all fragrant and at ease. It was all right for some. I grinned apologetically at her, trying to convey recognition of this topsy-turvy situation. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you blighter. Come back when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and then I might give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She said a word. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I honestly could not blame her.