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Shortly before the festive season, I had an extraordinary episode. I think it did me good. This occurred at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be tooth doctors, but it's not important. The assembled party were all blokes, which is key.

A Novel Situation

The location was a bar and eatery experiencing a excellent custom. A wasted daytime was shared by the group. Nice food, good libations and unexpectedly humorous tales about dentistry. As expected, the time came for trips to the men's room. Those who went, I vaguely observed, seemed to be absent a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it came to my turn, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering knew.

A Taste of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect empathy from any female reader here. I am fully conscious that, for females, being forced to wait to use a restroom is standard practice. How many times have I witnessed women waiting in a row while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Beyond the inconvenience of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about lingering there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was truly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, watching the women glide through the entrance while I was compelled to stand solemnly with others with my companions, angling away at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and checking our phones.

The Art of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant familiarity. Women, I imagine, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in polite remarks and an notable observation or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some women of my circle. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is limited to the occasional weary glance and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague told me it’s only at the hand-washing stations subsequently that conversation tends to begin.

Were I a woman, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or reticence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to wait in a shared procession simply for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the sheer inequity of it. A handy benchmark for any modern society would be balanced access in urination lining-up periods. I’m looking for research on this.

Male Chat in the Procession

Back in my wait, I tried to spark some male camaraderie going about this novel circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and said something like: “So, this represents an disagreeable change, doesn’t it boys?”

One person grinned, another seemed nonplussed, a third appeared embarrassed. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another example of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Aside from that, silence prevailed. Someone exited, fastening his trousers. The group shuffled up a spot. Another two men joined the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Interaction

A woman glided out of the neighbouring facility, all fragrant and relaxed. It was all right for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, endeavouring to convey recognition of this upside-down scenario. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and only then I might give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She didn’t say a word. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I truly could not fault her.