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In the run-up to the festive season, I had an extraordinary incident. I think it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a gathering of several mates, who happen to be tooth doctors, but this isn't important. The present party were all blokes, which proves to be significant.

A Novel Scenario

The location was a bar and eatery doing a excellent custom. A lost daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Good food, nice libations and unexpectedly humorous stories about oral health. Inevitably, the point arrived for visits to the male facilities. Those who went, I partially registered, looked to be gone a significant period. I didn't contemplate the reason this might have been, but when it was my turn, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the men's restroom. An empty space for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line recognised.

A Taste of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for pity from any lady here. I am acutely cognizant that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I witnessed women waiting in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

In addition to the hassle of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about standing there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was decidedly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, observing the opposite gender breeze through the door while I was forced to line up dutifully in queue with my fellow fellas, angling away at whatever we had in our pockets and checking our phones.

The Practice of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant experience. Women, I surmise, have developed skills to be rather good at it, sharing pleasantries and an notable observation or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my circle. The prevailing view is that intra-queue dialogue is limited to the occasional weary glance and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate told me it’s exclusively at the sinks later that discussion tends to begin.

Were I a lady, I’d waste no time on both niceties or reticence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to stand in a public line only for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the pure unfairness of it. A handy metric for any modern community would be balanced access in urination waiting times. I’m looking for research on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Line

Returning to my queue, I endeavoured to initiate some male camaraderie going about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and said something to the effect of: “Well, this makes an unpleasant variation, right chaps?”

A fellow grinned, another looked blank, a other man appeared embarrassed. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another example of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Aside from that, stillness ensued. A man came out, fastening his trousers. The group shuffled up a spot. Another two men joined the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Interaction

A lady wafted out of the neighbouring facility, all fresh and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I smiled apologetically at her, endeavouring to convey recognition of this upside-down state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you bastard. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and at that point I might give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She said a word. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I really would not censure her.