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In the run-up to Christmas, I experienced an remarkable incident. I feel it was beneficial for me. This took place at a get-together of some old friends, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but it's not important. The present group were exclusively male, which turns out to be relevant.

A Novel Situation

The establishment was a tavern enjoying a roaring trade. A wasted session was enjoyed by everyone. Good food, nice beverages and surprisingly humorous anecdotes about dentistry. As expected, the time arrived for excursions to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, seemed to be gone a long time. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it became my go, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue knew.

A Sample of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any lady here. I am obviously conscious that, for females, being forced to wait to use a restroom is the norm. How many times have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

In addition to the annoyance of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about lingering there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was truly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, watching the women walk straight through the portal while I was compelled to wait patiently with others with my mates, fiddling at anything we had in our pockets and consulting our phones.

The Genre of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a complete form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal familiarity. Females, I imagine, have developed skills to be rather good at it, exchanging pleasantries and an interesting observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some women of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is limited to the rare weary glance and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate mentioned it’s only at the hand-washing stations later that chat tends to begin.

If I was a woman, I’d waste no time on either small talk or silence. If I was obliged, over and over, to queue in a public line only for the chance to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the sheer inequity of it. A useful benchmark for any civilised culture would be gender parity in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for data on this.

Male Interaction in the Queue

During my time in my queue, I endeavoured to spark some male camaraderie flowing about this novel state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and said something like: “So, this represents an unpleasant change, doesn’t it boys?”

A fellow chuckled, a second appeared confused, a other man appeared embarrassed. A further person shook his head as if this was a further example of broken Britain, woke madness etc. For the most part, quiet reigned. Someone exited, zipping up. The queue moved forward a place. Another two men entered the end of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Moment

A woman emerged out of the next-door restroom, all fragrant and relaxed. It was all right for some. I beamed bashfully at her, trying to communicate recognition of this topsy-turvy situation. She said: “Don’t look to me for support, you blighter. Come back when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and only then I might give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She said anything. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I truly could not censure her.