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Just before the holidays, I had an remarkable incident. I believe it proved instructive. This took place at a gathering of some old friends, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The assembled group were all blokes, which turns out to be relevant.

A Strange Situation

The venue was a pub/restaurant doing a brisk business. A lost afternoon was had by all. Good food, nice drink and remarkably humorous anecdotes about teeth. Inevitably, the moment arrived for visits to the gents. Those who went, I vaguely observed, appeared to be away a significant period. I didn't contemplate why this might have been, but when it was me next, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a great long one for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line recognised.

A Taste of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for pity from any female reader here. I am fully aware that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a convenience is standard practice. Repeatedly have I observed women queuing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Beyond the annoyance of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of indignity about standing there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was profoundly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, observing the women walk straight through the entrance while I was forced to line up dutifully in line with my mates, fiddling at whatever we had in our jackets and scrolling through our phones.

The Practice of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little knowledge. Ladies, I presume, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, sharing pleasantries and an notable comment or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The consensus is that queue-based communication is confined to the rare weary glance and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague told me it’s only at the hand-washing stations subsequently that discussion tends to start up.

If I was a woman, I’d refrain from on both pleasantries or quiet. If I was forced, repeatedly, to stand in a shared procession simply for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the pure inequity of it. A handy measure for any advanced community would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m seeking out research on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Queue

Back in my wait, I endeavoured to get some male camaraderie started about this new situation of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and said something along the lines of: “So, this makes an unpleasant difference, doesn’t it chaps?”

Someone grinned, someone else appeared confused, a third individual seemed awkward. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more manifestation of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, quiet prevailed. A man emerged, fastening his trousers. The group advanced a position. Two more men entered the end of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Moment

A female wafted out of the neighbouring restroom, all fresh and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled apologetically at her, attempting to communicate recognition of this upside-down state of affairs. She said: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve done this a hundred more times and then I may give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She uttered a word. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I really would not fault her.