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Shortly before the holidays, I encountered an remarkable situation. I think it did me good. This happened at a gathering of several mates, who are incidentally dentists, but this isn't relevant. The assembled party were solely men, which is key.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The venue was a tavern doing a roaring trade. A forgotten daytime was shared by the group. Nice fare, fine libations and remarkably entertaining stories about oral health. Naturally, the time arrived for trips to the gents. Those who went, I half-noticed, looked to be absent a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it came to my go, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Taste of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any woman here. I am fully aware that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a convenience is the norm. Repeatedly have I observed women queuing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

In addition to the inconvenience of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of humiliation about standing there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, observing the opposite gender walk straight through the door while I was compelled to wait patiently with others with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our pockets and checking our handsets.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a whole form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant experience. Women, I presume, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, exchanging pleasantries and an notable observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some women of my circle. The consensus is that intra-queue dialogue is limited to the odd eye roll and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate mentioned it’s exclusively at the washbasins later that conversation tends to break out.

Were I a female, I’d not spend a moment on either pleasantries or quiet. If I was compelled, over and over, to queue in a shared procession only for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like crazy at the sheer injustice of it. A handy measure for any modern community would be gender parity in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for data on this.

Male Interaction in the Procession

During my time in my queue, I tried to get some brotherly banter flowing about this new circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something along the lines of: “So, this represents an unpleasant variation, right chaps?”

One person smiled, a second seemed nonplussed, a other man seemed awkward. Another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another symptom of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, stillness reigned. An individual emerged, zipping up. The queue shuffled up a position. Two more men entered the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Exchange

A lady wafted out of the neighbouring restroom, all clean and at ease. It was all right for some. I grinned apologetically at her, endeavouring to convey acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy scenario. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you jerk. Come back when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and only then I may give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She said a word. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly would not blame her.