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Just before the holidays, I experienced an unusual incident. I feel it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be tooth doctors, but that’s not pertinent. The attending party were exclusively male, which proves to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The venue was a bar and eatery doing a roaring trade. A lost session was shared by the group. Good cuisine, good drink and unexpectedly entertaining tales about teeth. As expected, the point dawned for trips to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, seemed to be away a significant period. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it was my go, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Taste of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect empathy from any woman here. I am obviously aware that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a public toilet is standard practice. Repeatedly have I witnessed women waiting in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Beyond the inconvenience of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a hint of embarrassment about standing there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the opposite gender breeze through the entrance while I was obliged to line up dutifully with others with my mates, fiddling at anything we had in our jackets and checking our phones.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a entire conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little experience. Ladies, I imagine, have learned to be quite proficient at it, exchanging pleasantries and an engaging observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The consensus is that within-the-line dialogue is limited to the odd exasperated look and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate informed me it’s exclusively at the sinks afterwards that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or reticence. If I was obliged, time and again, to wait in a common queue merely for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the pure unfairness of it. A useful measure for any civilised community would be balanced access in wee queue durations. I’m researching research on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Line

During my time in my wait, I endeavoured to initiate some male camaraderie going about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and said something like: “So, this makes an disagreeable difference, right boys?”

A fellow grinned, someone else appeared confused, a third seemed awkward. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was a further manifestation of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Aside from that, stillness prevailed. Someone came out, zipping up. The queue shuffled up a place. Two more men joined the end of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Moment

A female wafted out of the adjacent restroom, all fragrant and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, endeavouring to communicate recognition of this reversed scenario. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for support, you blighter. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and then I could give you the time.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She uttered anything. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I really wouldn’t fault her.