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Just before the holidays, I encountered an unusual incident. I believe it proved instructive. This occurred at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dentists, but that’s not relevant. The attending group were solely men, which turns out to be key.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The venue was a tavern doing a brisk business. A lost session was shared by the group. Fine fare, good beverages and remarkably humorous stories about teeth. As expected, the time dawned for visits to the men's room. Those who went, I vaguely observed, seemed to be absent a considerable while. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it was my turn, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue knew.

A Taste of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for pity from any woman here. I am acutely conscious that, for women, needing to line up to use a convenience is the norm. How many times have I observed women standing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Beyond the annoyance of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of humiliation about waiting there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was truly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, observing the other sex glide through the entrance while I was compelled to line up dutifully with others with my fellow fellas, fiddling at something we had in our trouser pockets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant experience. Women, I presume, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, sharing small talk and an engaging observation or two.

On this I’ve asked some women of my circle. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is confined to the rare exasperated look and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate informed me it’s only at the sinks later that conversation tends to begin.

Were I a female, I’d waste no time on both small talk or reticence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to stand in a common queue merely for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the utter inequity of it. A valuable metric for any civilised culture would be equal waiting times in toilet queue durations. I’m researching data on this.

Comradely Chat in the Line

Returning to my wait, I attempted to get some male camaraderie going about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something along the lines of: “So, this is an irksome change, isn't it lads?”

One person smiled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a other man looked sheepish. Another rolled his eyes as if this was one more symptom of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Otherwise, quiet ensued. An individual came out, zipping up. The group moved forward a spot. Another two men entered the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Moment

A female emerged out of the neighbouring facility, all fresh and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned apologetically at her, attempting to express an understanding of this topsy-turvy scenario. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you blighter. Return when you’ve endured this another hundred times and then I may give you the time.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She said nothing. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I truly wouldn’t blame her.