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Shortly before the holidays, I encountered an remarkable incident. I feel it was beneficial for me. This took place at a meeting of some old friends, who are, as it happens dentists, but this isn't relevant. The attending party were all blokes, which proves to be relevant.

A Strange Predicament

The location was a pub/restaurant doing a excellent custom. A lost daytime was shared by the group. Good fare, fine beverages and surprisingly amusing anecdotes about teeth. Inevitably, the time came for visits to the male facilities. Those who departed, I partially registered, looked to be absent a considerable while. I didn't ponder the reason this was, but when it came to me next, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line knew.

An Experience of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect empathy from any lady here. I am acutely conscious that, for females, needing to line up to use a convenience is the norm. On countless occasions have I seen women queuing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Beyond the hassle of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a hint of embarrassment about waiting there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was decidedly bracing to have a sample of it myself, watching the women glide through the door while I was compelled to line up dutifully in line with my mates, angling away at anything we had in our pockets and checking our phones.

The Art of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal experience. Women, I presume, have learned to be quite proficient at it, sharing polite remarks and an interesting insight or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The consensus is that intra-queue dialogue is limited to the rare exasperated look and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague informed me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations afterwards that chat tends to begin.

Had I been a lady, I’d refrain from on either niceties or silence. If I was obliged, time and again, to queue in a public line merely for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the pure unfairness of it. A valuable metric for any modern society would be gender parity in wee waiting times. I’m looking for research on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Procession

Returning to my wait, I tried to spark some brotherly banter started about this novel circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something like: “So, this is an unpleasant change, doesn’t it lads?”

Someone grinned, another appeared confused, a third individual appeared embarrassed. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another symptom of a failing society, woke madness etc. For the most part, stillness reigned. Someone emerged, zipping up. The group moved forward a position. Two more men took a place at the rear of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Exchange

A female emerged out of the neighbouring toilet, all clean and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I grinned bashfully at her, endeavouring to communicate acknowledgement of this reversed state of affairs. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for support, you jerk. Return when you’ve done this another hundred times and only then I might give you the time.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She said a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly would not blame her.