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Just before the festive season, I had an extraordinary situation. I feel it did me good. This happened at a meeting of some old friends, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The assembled party were all blokes, which proves to be significant.

A Strange Predicament

The establishment was a pub/restaurant doing a excellent custom. A wasted afternoon was had by all. Fine cuisine, good libations and surprisingly humorous tales about oral health. As expected, the time arrived for visits to the male facilities. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, looked to be gone a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it was me next, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men's. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line recognised.

A Taste of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any female reader here. I am fully conscious that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is standard practice. Repeatedly have I observed women queuing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the hassle of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of humiliation about lingering there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was decidedly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, observing the opposite gender glide through the door while I was obliged to stand solemnly in line with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at anything we had in our pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a whole conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant knowledge. Ladies, I surmise, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, engaging in polite remarks and an engaging comment or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some women of my circle. The consensus is that within-the-line interaction is restricted to the rare weary glance and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague mentioned it’s merely at the washbasins later that discussion tends to start up.

If I was a lady, I’d refrain from on either niceties or reticence. If I was obliged, over and over, to wait in a common queue simply for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the utter injustice of it. A handy benchmark for any advanced culture would be balanced access in toilet waiting times. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Male Interaction in the Line

Back in my wait, I tried to get some friendly chat started about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and said something like: “Ah, this makes an irksome change, isn't it chaps?”

One person smiled, someone else looked blank, a other man looked sheepish. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further manifestation of modern woes, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, silence ensued. Someone emerged, adjusting his clothing. The line shuffled up a position. Two more men joined the end of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Exchange

A female emerged out of the next-door toilet, all fragrant and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled bashfully at her, endeavouring to communicate acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for support, you bastard. Come back when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and only then I might give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She uttered nothing. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly wouldn’t fault her.