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In the run-up to the festive season, I experienced an extraordinary episode. I believe it did me good. This happened at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The present party were all blokes, which proves to be significant.

A Strange Situation

The venue was a pub/restaurant doing a brisk business. A lost session was shared by the group. Good fare, good drink and remarkably humorous stories about oral health. Naturally, the point arrived for trips to the male facilities. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, appeared to be away a considerable while. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it became me next, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the men's restroom. An empty space for the female facilities, but a great long one for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue recognised.

A Sample of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any lady here. I am obviously aware that, for females, being forced to wait to use a restroom is the norm. How many times have I witnessed women standing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the annoyance of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about waiting there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was decidedly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, observing the women breeze through the entrance while I was compelled to stand solemnly in line with my companions, angling away at whatever we had in our jackets and scrolling through our phones.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a complete conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little experience. Ladies, I imagine, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in small talk and an interesting comment or two.

On this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The general agreement is that intra-queue dialogue is restricted to the rare exasperated look and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague informed me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations afterwards that conversation tends to begin.

If I was a female, I’d waste no time on both niceties or quiet. If I was forced, repeatedly, to queue in a public line only for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter inequity of it. A valuable benchmark for any advanced community would be balanced access in wee queue durations. I’m seeking out data on this.

Comradely Chat in the Line

Returning to my wait, I tried to initiate some brotherly banter flowing about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something along the lines of: “Well, this is an disagreeable variation, right chaps?”

A fellow grinned, someone else looked blank, a third seemed awkward. Yet another shook his head as if this was a further manifestation of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Otherwise, stillness ensued. Someone exited, adjusting his clothing. The group shuffled up a position. Two more men took a place at the rear of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Moment

A lady wafted out of the next-door facility, all clean and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, attempting to convey acknowledgement of this reversed state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you jerk. Return when you’ve done this on a regular basis and only then I may give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She said nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly wouldn’t fault her.