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Shortly before the holidays, I encountered an remarkable situation. I believe it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The assembled crowd were exclusively male, which turns out to be relevant.

A Novel Situation

The establishment was a bar and eatery doing a brisk business. A lost session was shared by the group. Nice food, good drink and surprisingly humorous tales about teeth. As expected, the point came for visits to the male facilities. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, looked to be gone a long time. I didn't contemplate why this might have been, but when it was my go, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men's. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line knew.

A Taste of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for empathy from any lady here. I am fully cognizant that, for women, needing to line up to use a restroom is standard practice. Repeatedly have I witnessed women queuing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the annoyance of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a hint of indignity about waiting there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was truly sobering to get a taste of it myself, watching the women glide through the door while I was obliged to stand solemnly with others with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our jackets and consulting our phones.

The Practice of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a entire conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant familiarity. Women, I surmise, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, sharing pleasantries and an engaging insight or two.

On this I’ve polled some women of my circle. The general agreement is that within-the-line interaction is confined to the rare eye roll and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate told me it’s only at the hand-washing stations later that chat tends to begin.

Had I been a lady, I’d refrain from on both small talk or silence. If I was obliged, time and again, to stand in a common queue merely for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the utter inequity of it. A valuable measure for any advanced society would be equal waiting times in toilet queue durations. I’m looking for research on this.

Male Banter in the Procession

Returning to my line, I endeavoured to get some brotherly banter started about this novel state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something along the lines of: “Well, this makes an unpleasant variation, isn't it lads?”

A fellow smiled, another seemed nonplussed, a third individual seemed awkward. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was a further example of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Otherwise, stillness reigned. An individual came out, zipping up. The group moved forward a position. A couple more men joined the back of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Moment

A lady wafted out of the neighbouring toilet, all fresh and unhurried. It was all right for some. I grinned bashfully at her, trying to convey recognition of this upside-down situation. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you bastard. Return when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and at that point I might give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She uttered nothing. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I truly wouldn’t blame her.