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In the run-up to the holidays, I experienced an extraordinary incident. I think it did me good. This occurred at a meeting of some old friends, who are incidentally dental professionals, but that’s not pertinent. The attending group were exclusively male, which turns out to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The location was a bar and eatery doing a roaring trade. A wasted session was enjoyed by everyone. Good food, fine beverages and remarkably humorous tales about teeth. As expected, the time dawned for visits to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, looked to be gone a long time. I didn't contemplate why this could be, but when it became me next, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line recognised.

A Taste of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for sympathy from any female reader here. I am acutely cognizant that, for women, needing to line up to use a convenience is the norm. How many times have I witnessed women waiting in a row while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Apart from the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about lingering there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was truly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, observing the women glide through the door while I was obliged to wait patiently in line with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at anything we had in our pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Practice of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a complete conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal knowledge. Women, I surmise, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging pleasantries and an engaging insight or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some female friends of my acquaintance. The consensus is that intra-queue dialogue is confined to the rare eye roll and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate told me it’s exclusively at the sinks subsequently that chat tends to break out.

If I was a female, I’d waste no time on both small talk or quiet. If I was compelled, time and again, to stand in a common queue only for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the utter unfairness of it. A useful measure for any civilised community would be balanced access in urination queue durations. I’m looking for data on this.

Male Banter in the Queue

Returning to my line, I attempted to get some brotherly banter flowing about this new circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something to the effect of: “Well, this makes an unpleasant variation, doesn’t it boys?”

A fellow chuckled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third seemed awkward. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was one more example of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Otherwise, quiet reigned. An individual exited, zipping up. The line advanced a place. A couple more men took a place at the end of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Interaction

A lady wafted out of the next-door toilet, all fresh and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I smiled apologetically at her, endeavouring to convey an understanding of this upside-down situation. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for support, you jerk. Return when you’ve endured this another hundred times and only then I could give you the time of day.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She uttered nothing. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I honestly wouldn’t blame her.