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Just before Christmas, I had an remarkable episode. I believe it proved instructive. This happened at a meeting of several mates, who happen to be tooth doctors, but it's not relevant. The present crowd were all blokes, which proves to be key.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The establishment was a bar and eatery doing a brisk business. A wasted session was shared by the group. Fine cuisine, fine drink and surprisingly humorous anecdotes about dentistry. As expected, the moment arrived for visits to the men's room. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, looked to be absent a considerable while. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it was my turn, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

An Experience of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any female reader here. I am obviously aware that, for females, being forced to wait to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I observed women standing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the hassle of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a hint of embarrassment about waiting there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was truly sobering to have a sample of it myself, watching the other sex breeze through the entrance while I was compelled to wait patiently in queue with my mates, looking distractedly at anything we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our phones.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a complete form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little experience. Females, I presume, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, sharing small talk and an interesting insight or two.

On this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that intra-queue dialogue is restricted to the occasional eye roll and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague told me it’s exclusively at the washbasins later that chat tends to begin.

Had I been a lady, I’d waste no time on both small talk or quiet. If I was obliged, over and over, to stand in a public line simply for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the sheer injustice of it. A useful benchmark for any advanced society would be gender parity in wee queue durations. I’m researching studies on this.

Male Interaction in the Queue

Back in my wait, I tried to initiate some brotherly banter going about this new state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something along the lines of: “Well, this makes an disagreeable difference, right boys?”

Someone smiled, a second seemed nonplussed, a third individual seemed awkward. Yet another shook his head as if this was yet another example of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Aside from that, stillness ensued. A man exited, fastening his trousers. The group shuffled up a position. Two more men took a place at the rear of it. I sighed.

A Silent Moment

A female wafted out of the adjacent restroom, all fresh and at ease. It was all right for some. I beamed apologetically at her, trying to convey acknowledgement of this upside-down scenario. She said: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you bastard. Return when you’ve done this another hundred times and only then I may give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She said anything. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I really could not censure her.