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Shortly before the festive season, I encountered an extraordinary episode. I feel it was beneficial for me. This happened at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dentists, but this isn't important. The assembled group were all blokes, which is relevant.

A Novel Scenario

The location was a tavern experiencing a brisk business. A lost session was enjoyed by everyone. Fine cuisine, nice libations and unexpectedly entertaining stories about dentistry. Inevitably, the time arrived for trips to the male facilities. Those who went, I half-noticed, seemed to be absent a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it became my go, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. An empty space for the female facilities, but a great long one for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Sample of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for empathy from any lady here. I am fully conscious that, for females, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is standard practice. On countless occasions have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

In addition to the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about standing there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the other sex breeze through the door while I was obliged to line up dutifully in queue with my fellow fellas, angling away at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a complete form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal knowledge. Females, I imagine, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, sharing small talk and an notable insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my circle. The consensus is that queue-based interaction is restricted to the odd eye roll and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate told me it’s exclusively at the washbasins later that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or silence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to wait in a public line only for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter unfairness of it. A valuable metric for any modern society would be equal waiting times in urination queue durations. I’m researching data on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Line

During my time in my wait, I endeavoured to get some male camaraderie going about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something to the effect of: “Ah, this makes an disagreeable change, doesn’t it boys?”

A fellow chuckled, another seemed nonplussed, a third individual looked sheepish. Another shook his head as if this was a further manifestation of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Otherwise, silence ensued. A man exited, fastening his trousers. The group shuffled up a position. Another two men joined the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Moment

A lady glided out of the neighbouring facility, all clean and relaxed. It was all right for some. I grinned apologetically at her, trying to communicate recognition of this upside-down situation. She remarked: “Don't come to me for support, you blighter. Return when you’ve done this a hundred more times and only then I could give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She said anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I really could not fault her.