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In the run-up to Christmas, I encountered an unusual incident. I think it proved instructive. This took place at a get-together of some old friends, who are incidentally dentists, but this isn't relevant. The attending party were solely men, which turns out to be key.

A Strange Situation

The location was a pub/restaurant doing a excellent custom. A forgotten afternoon was shared by the group. Nice fare, good libations and unexpectedly entertaining stories about teeth. Naturally, the moment arrived for excursions to the men's room. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, looked to be away a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this was, but when it was my go, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a long queue for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, 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 recognised.

A Sample of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect pity from any female reader here. I am acutely conscious that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is standard practice. How many times have I seen women queuing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the hassle of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about lingering there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was truly sobering to get a taste of it myself, watching the opposite gender breeze through the door while I was compelled to line up dutifully with others with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at something we had in our pockets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Genre of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a whole form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little knowledge. Women, I imagine, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, sharing small talk and an interesting observation or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that within-the-line interaction is limited to the rare eye roll and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate informed me it’s only at the hand-washing stations subsequently that discussion tends to start up.

Had I been a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both niceties or quiet. If I was obliged, over and over, to queue in a common queue simply for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the pure unfairness of it. A handy measure for any advanced community would be equal waiting times in wee queue durations. I’m researching studies on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Line

During my time in my queue, I endeavoured to get some brotherly banter flowing about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something along the lines of: “Ah, this makes an disagreeable variation, doesn’t it chaps?”

Someone grinned, a second looked blank, a third appeared embarrassed. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another example of broken Britain, political correctness etc. For the most part, stillness prevailed. An individual exited, adjusting his clothing. The group shuffled up a position. Another two men joined the back of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Moment

A woman emerged out of the neighbouring facility, all fresh and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned apologetically at her, endeavouring to express acknowledgement of this reversed scenario. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you bastard. Come back when you’ve endured this another hundred times and then I may give you the time of day.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I truly would not blame her.