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In the run-up to the holidays, I encountered an unusual incident. I think it did me good. This took place at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but that’s not pertinent. The attending group were solely men, which is key.

A Strange Situation

The location was a pub/restaurant doing a roaring trade. A wasted session was had by all. Nice food, good libations and surprisingly amusing tales about teeth. Inevitably, the moment arrived for visits to the gents. Those who went, I half-noticed, looked to be gone a long time. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it became me next, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line knew.

A Sample of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect pity from any female reader here. I am acutely cognizant that, for females, being forced to wait to use a restroom is standard practice. On countless occasions have I observed women queuing in a row while men in the same establishment 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 lingering there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was truly bracing to have a sample of it myself, observing the other sex walk straight through the portal while I was forced to wait patiently in line with my mates, looking distractedly at anything we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Practice of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a entire form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant experience. Ladies, I imagine, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging pleasantries and an interesting insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my circle. The consensus is that within-the-line interaction is restricted to the odd exasperated look and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate informed me it’s merely at the washbasins later that chat tends to break out.

If I was a female, I’d not spend a moment on either niceties or quiet. If I was obliged, time and again, to stand in a common queue simply for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like crazy at the utter inequity of it. A valuable metric for any civilised society would be equal waiting times in wee queue durations. I’m looking for research on this.

Comradely Banter in the Procession

Back in my wait, I tried to spark some male camaraderie flowing about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and said something along the lines of: “So, this is an irksome change, doesn’t it lads?”

A fellow smiled, a second seemed nonplussed, a other man looked sheepish. Another rolled his eyes as if this was a further symptom of a failing society, political correctness etc. For the most part, stillness prevailed. A man came out, zipping up. The group moved forward a spot. Two more men joined the end of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Exchange

A female emerged out of the next-door restroom, all clean and at ease. It was just fine for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, attempting to convey acknowledgement of this upside-down scenario. She said: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you jerk. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and then I might give you the time.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She uttered anything. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I truly could not censure her.