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In the run-up to Christmas, I had an remarkable episode. I believe it proved instructive. This occurred at a gathering of some old friends, who are incidentally dental professionals, but this isn't pertinent. The assembled crowd were solely men, which turns out to be relevant.

A Novel Predicament

The location was a pub/restaurant enjoying a brisk business. A wasted afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Good fare, good beverages and remarkably entertaining anecdotes about teeth. Naturally, the time dawned for excursions to the gents. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, seemed to be away a significant period. I didn't contemplate why this could be, but when it became me next, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line recognised.

A Sample of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect empathy from any female reader here. I am acutely conscious that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a restroom is the norm. Repeatedly have I witnessed women standing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

In addition to the annoyance of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about standing there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was decidedly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, watching the other sex walk straight through the portal while I was forced to wait patiently in queue with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at anything we had in our pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant familiarity. Ladies, I surmise, have learned to be rather good at it, engaging in pleasantries and an interesting insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some female friends of my acquaintance. The consensus is that queue-based interaction is limited to the odd eye roll and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague mentioned it’s only at the sinks later that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a female, I’d waste no time on either niceties or quiet. If I was forced, repeatedly, to stand in a public line merely for the chance to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the utter injustice of it. A handy metric for any civilised culture would be balanced access in urination queue durations. I’m looking for research on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Line

During my time in my line, I attempted to get some male camaraderie flowing about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and said something along the lines of: “Ah, this represents an irksome difference, doesn’t it boys?”

A fellow grinned, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third looked sheepish. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further symptom of a failing society, woke madness etc. For the most part, silence ensued. A man emerged, adjusting his clothing. The line moved forward a position. Two more men entered the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Moment

A woman glided out of the adjacent toilet, all fresh and at ease. It was just fine for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, attempting to communicate recognition of this upside-down state of affairs. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for support, you bastard. Return when you’ve done this a hundred more times and only then I might give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She said a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I really wouldn’t blame her.