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Shortly before the festive season, I had an remarkable episode. I believe it did me good. This happened at a meeting of several mates, who happen to be dentists, but that’s not pertinent. The present group were solely men, which turns out to be significant.

A Strange Predicament

The location was a tavern doing a excellent custom. A wasted afternoon was shared by the group. Fine cuisine, fine beverages and unexpectedly amusing tales about oral health. Inevitably, the point arrived for excursions to the men's room. Those who went, I vaguely observed, looked to be absent a long time. I didn't ponder why this was, but when it came to my go, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

An Experience of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any female reader here. I am fully conscious that, for females, having to queue to use a restroom is standard practice. Repeatedly have I observed women waiting in a row while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

In addition to the annoyance of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a tinge of indignity about lingering there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was truly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, watching the women glide through the entrance while I was forced to wait patiently with others with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at anything we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal knowledge. Ladies, I surmise, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, engaging in polite remarks and an engaging comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The general agreement is that within-the-line dialogue is confined to the odd exasperated look and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate informed me it’s merely at the sinks later that discussion tends to start up.

If I was a female, I’d waste no time on both pleasantries or silence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to wait in a shared procession simply for the chance to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the utter inequity of it. A valuable metric for any civilised society would be equal waiting times in wee queue durations. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Comradely Banter in the Line

Returning to my queue, I endeavoured to get some friendly chat started about this novel situation of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and said something to the effect of: “Well, this makes an disagreeable difference, right lads?”

A fellow smiled, another looked blank, a other man seemed awkward. Yet another shook his head as if this was a further manifestation of broken Britain, woke madness etc. For the most part, stillness ensued. Someone exited, zipping up. The line shuffled up a position. Two more men joined the end of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Exchange

A woman glided out of the next-door restroom, all fresh and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I beamed apologetically at her, trying to communicate acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy situation. She said: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you bastard. Come back when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and at that point I may give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She uttered a word. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I really would not blame her.