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In the run-up to the holidays, I experienced an remarkable episode. I feel it proved instructive. This took place at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dental professionals, but it's not pertinent. The present party were all blokes, which proves to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The venue was a tavern doing a brisk business. A lost session was enjoyed by everyone. Nice food, nice libations and surprisingly amusing stories about oral health. As expected, the point dawned for excursions to the men's room. Those who departed, I partially registered, looked to be away a significant period. I didn't ponder why this might have been, but when it became my go, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line knew.

A Sample of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for pity from any lady here. I am obviously conscious that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I observed women standing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the annoyance of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a hint of indignity about waiting there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was truly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, observing the women glide through the entrance while I was obliged to wait patiently in queue with my mates, fiddling at something we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal familiarity. Females, I presume, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging small talk and an notable observation or two.

On this I’ve consulted some women of my circle. The prevailing view is that within-the-line dialogue is limited to the rare eye roll and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate mentioned it’s exclusively at the washbasins subsequently that discussion tends to begin.

Were I a woman, I’d refrain from on either niceties or reticence. If I was obliged, time and again, to wait in a shared procession merely for the chance to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the utter inequity of it. A useful metric for any civilised society would be balanced access in toilet queue durations. I’m seeking out research on this.

Comradely Chat in the Queue

During my time in my wait, I endeavoured to initiate some male camaraderie started about this new state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something along the lines of: “Ah, this is an irksome variation, right lads?”

Someone grinned, a second looked blank, a third individual seemed awkward. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was one more manifestation of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, stillness ensued. A man exited, adjusting his clothing. The line advanced a spot. Another two men joined the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Interaction

A lady emerged out of the next-door toilet, all fragrant and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, trying to convey acknowledgement of this upside-down scenario. She remarked: “Don't come to me for support, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and at that point I may give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She didn’t say a word. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I truly would not blame her.