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Just before the festive season, I experienced an remarkable episode. I feel it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a get-together of some old friends, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but this isn't pertinent. The attending crowd were solely men, which proves to be relevant.

A Novel Predicament

The location was a tavern enjoying a roaring trade. A forgotten daytime was shared by the group. Good fare, good beverages and surprisingly entertaining stories about oral health. As expected, the moment arrived for excursions to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, appeared to be gone a considerable while. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it became my go, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. An empty space for the female facilities, but a great long one for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line knew.

A Sample of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any lady here. I am obviously aware that, for women, being forced to wait to use a restroom is the norm. Repeatedly have I observed women queuing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the hassle of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about waiting there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was profoundly bracing to have a sample of it myself, seeing the opposite gender glide through the door while I was forced to wait patiently in line with my companions, looking distractedly at anything we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal knowledge. Females, I presume, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, sharing polite remarks and an engaging insight or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some women of my circle. The prevailing view is that within-the-line dialogue is restricted to the odd eye roll and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate informed me it’s only at the hand-washing stations subsequently that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a female, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or reticence. If I was forced, time and again, to wait in a shared procession only for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the sheer injustice of it. A useful metric for any advanced society would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m researching studies on this.

Male Chat in the Queue

During my time in my queue, I attempted to spark some friendly chat flowing about this novel circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and said something like: “Ah, this is an disagreeable variation, right boys?”

Someone smiled, someone else appeared confused, a third looked sheepish. A further person shook his head as if this was yet another symptom of broken Britain, political correctness etc. For the most part, silence reigned. An individual came out, zipping up. The group shuffled up a place. Two more men joined the rear of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Exchange

A female emerged out of the next-door facility, all fragrant and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I grinned apologetically at her, trying to express recognition of this reversed situation. She said: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve done this on a regular basis and at that point I might give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She didn’t say a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I truly could not fault her.