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In the run-up to the holidays, I experienced an unusual situation. I believe it proved instructive. This took place at a get-together of some old friends, who happen to be tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The attending group were all blokes, which proves to be relevant.

A Novel Predicament

The establishment was a pub/restaurant experiencing a brisk business. A lost daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Good fare, good drink and surprisingly humorous tales about dentistry. As expected, the time arrived for trips to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, seemed to be absent a long time. I didn’t dwell on why this might have been, but when it came to my turn, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line were accustomed to.

An Experience of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for empathy from any lady here. I am acutely aware that, for females, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I observed women queuing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

In addition to the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of humiliation about waiting there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was profoundly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, watching the opposite gender glide through the portal while I was compelled to stand solemnly in line with my companions, angling away at whatever we had in our pockets and consulting our phones.

The Genre of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a whole conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little knowledge. Women, I surmise, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in pleasantries and an notable insight or two.

On this I’ve polled some female friends of my acquaintance. The consensus is that within-the-line communication is restricted to the rare exasperated look and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate told me it’s merely at the washbasins subsequently that chat tends to break out.

Had I been a woman, I’d not spend a moment on both niceties or reticence. If I was obliged, over and over, to queue in a shared procession merely for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like crazy at the utter injustice of it. A handy metric for any modern community would be gender parity in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for data on this.

Male Interaction in the Queue

Returning to my wait, I endeavoured to initiate some brotherly banter going about this novel circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and said something along the lines of: “Ah, this is an unpleasant difference, right chaps?”

One person chuckled, a second looked blank, a third individual looked sheepish. A further person shook his head as if this was a further example of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Otherwise, quiet prevailed. Someone emerged, fastening his trousers. The line moved forward a spot. Two more men joined the back of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Interaction

A woman glided out of the next-door toilet, all fragrant and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I beamed apologetically at her, endeavouring to express an understanding of this upside-down situation. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for support, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve done this another hundred times and then I may give you the time.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She uttered anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I really could not fault her.