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Shortly before the festive season, I experienced an remarkable episode. I believe it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dentists, but this isn't important. The assembled crowd were exclusively male, which is significant.

A Novel Predicament

The establishment was a bar and eatery doing a brisk business. A wasted session was shared by the group. Fine cuisine, nice libations and unexpectedly entertaining anecdotes about teeth. Naturally, the moment dawned for excursions to the men's room. Those who went, I vaguely observed, appeared to be absent a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it came to my turn, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue recognised.

An Experience of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect empathy from any woman here. I am fully aware that, for women, having to queue to use a public toilet is standard practice. On countless occasions have I witnessed women waiting in a row while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the annoyance of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a hint of indignity about standing there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was decidedly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, seeing the other sex breeze through the door while I was forced to line up dutifully in queue with my mates, fiddling at anything we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our phones.

The Practice of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal familiarity. Ladies, I presume, have become adept to be rather good at it, sharing polite remarks and an engaging comment or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some female friends of my knowledge. The consensus is that intra-queue interaction is limited to the occasional eye roll and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate told me it’s only at the hand-washing stations afterwards that discussion tends to start up.

Were I a female, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or silence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to stand in a shared procession merely for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the utter injustice of it. A valuable benchmark for any advanced society would be gender parity in toilet lining-up periods. I’m looking for studies on this.

Comradely Banter in the Procession

Returning to my queue, I endeavoured to spark some friendly chat started about this unprecedented situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something like: “Ah, this represents an unpleasant variation, doesn’t it chaps?”

One person chuckled, a second seemed nonplussed, a third appeared embarrassed. A further person shook his head as if this was yet another manifestation of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Aside from that, stillness prevailed. An individual exited, fastening his trousers. The group advanced a spot. Another two men took a place at the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Moment

A woman glided out of the adjacent restroom, all fresh and unhurried. It was all right for some. I smiled bashfully at her, trying to express acknowledgement of this upside-down state of affairs. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you bastard. Return when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and at that point I could give you the time of day.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She uttered nothing. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly could not censure her.