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Shortly before the holidays, I had an unusual incident. I feel it did me good. This took place at a get-together of several mates, who are, as it happens dentists, but that’s not important. The present crowd were exclusively male, which proves to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The venue was a pub/restaurant experiencing a brisk business. A wasted afternoon was shared by the group. Nice food, good beverages and remarkably humorous tales about oral health. Naturally, the point arrived for excursions to the men's room. Those who departed, I partially registered, seemed to be gone a significant period. I didn't contemplate the reason this might have been, but when it became my go, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering knew.

An Experience of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect empathy from any woman here. I am acutely aware that, for females, being forced to wait to use a convenience is the norm. On countless occasions have I observed women queuing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Apart from the annoyance of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a tinge of humiliation about waiting there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was decidedly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, watching the women glide through the door while I was forced to wait patiently in line with my fellow fellas, angling away at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Practice of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a complete conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little knowledge. Females, I surmise, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in pleasantries and an interesting insight or two.

On this I’ve consulted some women of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that intra-queue interaction is limited to the rare weary glance and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague told me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations later that conversation tends to begin.

Had I been a female, I’d refrain from on either small talk or reticence. If I was obliged, over and over, to wait in a shared procession merely for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the sheer injustice of it. A valuable metric for any modern society would be balanced access in toilet lining-up periods. I’m researching data on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Procession

Back in my line, I tried to initiate some male camaraderie started about this new circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and said something like: “Ah, this is an unpleasant change, right boys?”

One person grinned, another appeared confused, a third looked sheepish. Another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another manifestation of modern woes, political correctness etc. Aside from that, silence reigned. A man came out, fastening his trousers. The group moved forward a position. Two more men entered the back of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Exchange

A woman glided out of the adjacent facility, all fragrant and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I beamed bashfully at her, attempting to communicate recognition of this upside-down situation. She said: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you blighter. Return when you’ve done this a hundred more times and then I could give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She uttered a word. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I really could not blame her.