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Just before Christmas, I experienced an remarkable situation. I feel it proved instructive. This took place at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dentists, but it's not pertinent. The attending group were all blokes, which is relevant.

A Novel Situation

The establishment was a tavern experiencing a roaring trade. A wasted afternoon was had by all. Good fare, good drink and remarkably entertaining anecdotes about dentistry. Inevitably, the point arrived for trips to the male facilities. Those who went, I partially registered, appeared to be absent a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it came to my go, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering knew.

An Experience of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any lady here. I am acutely aware that, for females, being forced to wait to use a convenience is standard practice. How many times have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about standing there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, watching the other sex glide through the portal while I was forced to line up dutifully in line with my mates, looking distractedly at something we had in our pockets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Genre of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant knowledge. Females, I surmise, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging small talk and an engaging insight or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some female friends of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that queue-based dialogue is restricted to the rare eye roll and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague told me it’s merely at the washbasins later that chat tends to break out.

If I was a female, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or quiet. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to wait in a public line merely for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the sheer inequity of it. A handy measure for any advanced culture would be balanced access in toilet queue durations. I’m researching research on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Line

During my time in my line, I endeavoured to get some male camaraderie started about this novel situation of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and said something like: “Ah, this is an irksome variation, right chaps?”

A fellow grinned, a second seemed nonplussed, a other man looked sheepish. Another shook his head as if this was one more symptom of broken Britain, woke madness etc. For the most part, stillness prevailed. A man emerged, fastening his trousers. The group shuffled up a place. Another two men took a place at the back of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Interaction

A woman glided out of the adjacent facility, all clean and unhurried. It was all right for some. I grinned bashfully at her, trying to express acknowledgement of this reversed scenario. She said: “Don't turn to me for support, you jerk. Return when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and at that point I may give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She didn’t say a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I really could not blame her.