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Just before the festive season, I had an remarkable situation. I believe it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dentists, but that’s not relevant. The assembled group were all blokes, which turns out to be significant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The venue was a bar and eatery doing a brisk business. A wasted daytime was had by all. Fine cuisine, good libations and unexpectedly amusing anecdotes about teeth. Inevitably, the moment arrived for visits to the gents. Those who went, I half-noticed, seemed to be away a significant period. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it came to me next, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue recognised.

An Experience of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect empathy from any female reader here. I am acutely conscious that, for women, being forced to wait to use a restroom is the norm. On countless occasions have I seen women standing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Beyond the annoyance of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a hint of embarrassment about waiting there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was decidedly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, seeing the women walk straight through the entrance while I was obliged to line up dutifully in line with my fellow fellas, angling away at something we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a whole form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant familiarity. Women, I imagine, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging pleasantries and an engaging insight or two.

On this I’ve consulted some female friends of my knowledge. The general agreement is that intra-queue interaction is limited to the rare weary glance and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate informed me it’s merely at the sinks afterwards that chat tends to start up.

Had I been a woman, I’d waste no time on either niceties or reticence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to wait in a shared procession only for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the pure injustice of it. A valuable metric for any modern culture would be balanced access in urination lining-up periods. I’m researching research on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Procession

Returning to my line, I tried to initiate some male camaraderie flowing about this new situation of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something along the lines of: “So, this is an unpleasant change, isn't it boys?”

A fellow grinned, another seemed nonplussed, a other man appeared embarrassed. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more symptom of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, silence ensued. A man emerged, fastening his trousers. The line moved forward a position. A couple more men entered the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Moment

A female emerged out of the adjacent facility, all fresh and at ease. It was all right for some. I grinned bashfully at her, attempting to communicate an understanding of this reversed state of affairs. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you bastard. Return when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and only then I might give you the time.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She said nothing. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I really could not blame her.