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In the run-up to Christmas, I experienced an unusual incident. I think it was beneficial for me. This happened at a get-together of several mates, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but it's not important. The attending party were all blokes, which is key.

A Novel Predicament

The venue was a pub/restaurant enjoying a excellent custom. A lost afternoon was had by all. Good cuisine, fine beverages and surprisingly humorous anecdotes about teeth. Naturally, the time came for excursions to the gents. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, appeared to be absent a significant period. I didn't ponder the reason this might have been, but when it was me next, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line recognised.

A Taste of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for sympathy from any lady here. I am fully aware that, for females, needing to line up to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I witnessed women waiting in a line while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the hassle of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of indignity about lingering there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was profoundly bracing to have a sample of it myself, seeing the other sex walk straight through the door while I was compelled to stand solemnly with others with my companions, angling away at anything we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Practice of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a entire form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal knowledge. Ladies, I imagine, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, engaging in polite remarks and an notable observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some women of my circle. The general agreement is that queue-based communication is restricted to the odd weary glance and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague mentioned it’s merely at the washbasins subsequently that conversation tends to begin.

If I was a woman, I’d refrain from on both niceties or silence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to queue in a public line simply for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the sheer inequity of it. A handy measure for any modern society would be balanced access in wee waiting times. I’m seeking out research on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Procession

During my time in my line, I tried to get some male camaraderie going about this new state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and said something to the effect of: “Ah, this represents an unpleasant variation, doesn’t it boys?”

A fellow grinned, a second seemed nonplussed, a other man seemed awkward. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further manifestation of modern woes, political correctness etc. Aside from that, quiet ensued. Someone exited, zipping up. The line advanced a spot. Two more men joined the back of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Interaction

A woman wafted out of the adjacent facility, all fragrant and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, attempting to express recognition of this reversed state of affairs. She said: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you bastard. Return when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and only then I may give you the time of day.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She didn’t say nothing. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly could not censure her.