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In the run-up to the holidays, I had an remarkable incident. I believe it did me good. This occurred at a get-together of some old friends, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but this isn't important. The attending crowd were solely men, which is key.

A Novel Predicament

The location was a pub/restaurant enjoying a brisk business. A lost afternoon was had by all. Nice fare, fine beverages and surprisingly entertaining stories about teeth. Inevitably, the point dawned for visits to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, seemed to be away a considerable while. I didn't ponder why this might have been, but when it came to my turn, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line were accustomed to.

A Sample of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect empathy from any lady here. I am obviously aware that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I observed women standing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Beyond the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a hint of indignity about waiting there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was profoundly bracing to get a taste of it myself, seeing the opposite gender walk straight through the door while I was compelled to wait patiently in queue with my mates, looking distractedly at something we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Genre of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a complete conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant knowledge. Ladies, I presume, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, exchanging pleasantries and an interesting insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some women of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that intra-queue dialogue is limited to the rare exasperated look and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate told me it’s only at the sinks subsequently that chat tends to start up.

Were I a woman, I’d refrain from on either small talk or reticence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to stand in a public line merely for the chance to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the sheer injustice of it. A valuable benchmark for any civilised society would be gender parity in wee queue durations. I’m looking for research on this.

Comradely Chat in the Procession

During my time in my queue, I tried to initiate some brotherly banter going about this new circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something like: “Well, this is an disagreeable variation, right boys?”

Someone chuckled, someone else looked blank, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more example of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, stillness ensued. An individual emerged, zipping up. The line advanced a position. Two more men entered the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Moment

A woman glided out of the neighbouring facility, all fresh and at ease. It was just fine for some. I beamed apologetically at her, endeavouring to express recognition of this upside-down state of affairs. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and only then I could give you the time.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She uttered nothing. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I really would not blame her.