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Shortly before the festive season, I encountered an extraordinary incident. I feel it was beneficial for me. This happened at a get-together of some old friends, who happen to be tooth doctors, but it's not pertinent. The assembled group were exclusively male, which proves to be key.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The location was a tavern doing a excellent custom. A wasted afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Good cuisine, fine beverages and unexpectedly entertaining stories about teeth. Inevitably, the moment arrived for visits to the men's room. Those who departed, I partially registered, appeared to be gone a long time. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it came to my turn, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering knew.

A Sample of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect empathy from any woman here. I am fully conscious that, for females, needing to line up to use a restroom is standard practice. On countless occasions have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Apart from the inconvenience of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a hint of humiliation about waiting there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was truly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the opposite gender glide through the entrance while I was obliged to wait patiently with others with my fellow fellas, angling away at anything we had in our pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a entire conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little experience. Women, I surmise, have developed skills to be rather good at it, engaging in polite remarks and an interesting observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some female friends of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that within-the-line dialogue is restricted to the occasional eye roll and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague told me it’s only at the washbasins afterwards that chat tends to begin.

If I was a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both pleasantries or silence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to queue in a public line only for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the sheer injustice of it. A useful benchmark for any modern community would be equal waiting times in toilet queue durations. I’m researching data on this.

Male Banter in the Queue

During my time in my queue, I endeavoured to spark some brotherly banter started about this novel situation of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something along the lines of: “So, this represents an irksome change, right chaps?”

One person grinned, another looked blank, a other man looked sheepish. Another shook his head as if this was one more example of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Otherwise, silence ensued. Someone emerged, zipping up. The group shuffled up a position. Two more men joined the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Moment

A female glided out of the adjacent facility, all clean and at ease. It was all right for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, endeavouring to communicate an understanding of this reversed state of affairs. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and only then I may give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She said a word. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I really would not fault her.