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Just before Christmas, I had an extraordinary incident. I believe it did me good. This happened at a meeting of several mates, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The assembled crowd were solely men, which proves to be relevant.

A Novel Situation

The establishment was a tavern enjoying a excellent custom. A forgotten session was shared by the group. Nice food, good libations and remarkably entertaining stories about teeth. As expected, the point came for excursions to the male facilities. Those who departed, I half-noticed, seemed to be absent a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it was me next, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the female facilities, but a great long one for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue knew.

A Sample of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect pity from any woman here. I am acutely cognizant that, for females, being forced to wait to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I witnessed women queuing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of humiliation about standing there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was profoundly sobering to have a sample of it myself, seeing the women breeze through the portal while I was obliged to wait patiently with others with my companions, fiddling at something we had in our pockets and checking our mobile devices.

The Art of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a entire conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant familiarity. Ladies, I presume, have developed skills to be rather good at it, engaging in small talk and an interesting insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some female friends of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that within-the-line interaction is limited to the rare weary glance and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague mentioned it’s merely at the sinks afterwards that chat tends to start up.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both niceties or reticence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to queue in a shared procession merely for the chance to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter unfairness of it. A valuable measure for any modern society would be gender parity in toilet waiting times. I’m researching research on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Procession

Returning to my queue, I endeavoured to initiate some brotherly banter going about this new state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and said something like: “Ah, this represents an irksome variation, right lads?”

A fellow chuckled, another looked blank, a third individual seemed awkward. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more symptom of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Otherwise, silence prevailed. Someone exited, fastening his trousers. The line shuffled up a spot. Two more men took a place at the rear of it. I sighed.

A Silent Interaction

A lady wafted out of the neighbouring facility, all fresh and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, trying to express recognition of this upside-down state of affairs. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you jerk. Come back when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and at that point I may give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She uttered nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly could not blame her.