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Shortly before the festive season, I had an remarkable incident. I believe it did me good. This occurred at a meeting of several mates, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but that’s not relevant. The attending party were solely men, which turns out to be key.

A Strange Predicament

The location was a bar and eatery enjoying a excellent custom. A wasted daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Good cuisine, good drink and unexpectedly amusing tales about oral health. Inevitably, the point arrived for visits to the men's room. Those who went, I partially registered, appeared to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this was, but when it came to my go, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line recognised.

An Experience of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for empathy from any woman here. I am obviously cognizant that, for women, being forced to wait to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I witnessed women queuing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Apart from the annoyance of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a hint of humiliation about waiting there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly bracing to get a taste of it myself, seeing the other sex breeze through the portal while I was obliged to stand solemnly with others with my fellow fellas, fiddling at something we had in our trouser pockets and checking our handsets.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal familiarity. Females, I imagine, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, exchanging polite remarks and an interesting insight or two.

On this I’ve consulted some female friends of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that intra-queue communication is confined to the rare weary glance and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague informed me it’s only at the washbasins subsequently that chat tends to start up.

If I was a woman, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or reticence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to queue in a public line simply for the chance to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the utter inequity of it. A valuable benchmark for any civilised society would be gender parity in urination queue durations. I’m looking for studies on this.

Male Banter in the Procession

During my time in my line, I tried to get some male camaraderie started about this unprecedented situation of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and said something like: “So, this is an disagreeable change, right boys?”

One person chuckled, a second appeared confused, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further example of modern woes, woke madness etc. Aside from that, quiet reigned. A man came out, fastening his trousers. The queue advanced a position. Two more men joined the back of it. I sighed.

A Silent Exchange

A female glided out of the neighbouring toilet, all fragrant and at ease. It was all right for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, endeavouring to convey an understanding of this topsy-turvy situation. She remarked: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you jerk. Come back when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and only then I could give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She uttered a word. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I truly wouldn’t blame her.