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Shortly before Christmas, I encountered an unusual situation. I think it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a get-together of several mates, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but this isn't important. The present group were solely men, which is key.

A Novel Situation

The location was a pub/restaurant experiencing a brisk business. A forgotten afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Nice cuisine, nice beverages and remarkably amusing tales about oral health. Naturally, the time arrived for visits to the gents. Those who went, I partially registered, seemed to be gone a long time. I didn't ponder why this was, but when it came to me next, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line recognised.

A Taste of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for sympathy from any lady here. I am obviously aware that, for females, needing to line up to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I observed women waiting in a line while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Beyond the annoyance of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about standing there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was decidedly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the other sex walk straight through the entrance while I was obliged to line up dutifully in queue with my companions, fiddling at something we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Practice of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a whole form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little familiarity. Ladies, I surmise, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, sharing small talk and an engaging observation or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some women of my circle. The consensus is that within-the-line interaction is confined to the occasional weary glance and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate mentioned it’s merely at the hand-washing stations afterwards that discussion tends to begin.

Were I a lady, I’d refrain from on either pleasantries or quiet. If I was forced, time and again, to stand in a shared procession merely for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the sheer inequity of it. A useful measure for any civilised culture would be equal waiting times in wee waiting times. I’m looking for studies on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Line

During my time in my queue, I endeavoured to spark some male camaraderie going about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something to the effect of: “Well, this represents an irksome change, right lads?”

One person chuckled, a second appeared confused, a third individual seemed awkward. Another rolled his eyes as if this was a further manifestation of a failing society, woke madness etc. Otherwise, stillness reigned. A man exited, adjusting his clothing. The line shuffled up a spot. Two more men entered the back of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Moment

A female wafted out of the next-door toilet, all fresh and at ease. It was just fine for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, attempting to communicate an understanding of this reversed state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't come to me for support, you bastard. Return when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and at that point I could give you the time.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She didn’t say nothing. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I really could not blame her.