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In the run-up to the festive season, I encountered an unusual episode. I think it did me good. This took place at a meeting of some old friends, who happen to be dentists, but this isn't pertinent. The assembled group were exclusively male, which proves to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The venue was a bar and eatery doing a brisk business. A wasted daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Good fare, fine beverages and remarkably amusing stories about oral health. Naturally, the time came for visits to the gents. Those who departed, I partially registered, seemed to be gone a significant period. I didn't ponder the reason this might have been, but when it became my turn, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue knew.

An Experience of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect pity from any lady here. I am obviously conscious that, for females, having to queue to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I observed women waiting in a line while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the hassle of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about waiting there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was truly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, observing the opposite gender glide through the door while I was compelled to wait patiently with others with my companions, looking distractedly at something we had in our jackets and consulting our phones.

The Art of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a whole form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little experience. Females, I surmise, have become adept to be rather good at it, exchanging small talk and an engaging comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my circle. The prevailing view is that within-the-line dialogue is confined to the odd eye roll and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague informed me it’s only at the washbasins later that chat tends to start up.

If I was a lady, I’d refrain from on both small talk or silence. If I was forced, time and again, to stand in a shared procession only for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like crazy at the sheer inequity of it. A valuable metric for any modern society would be balanced access in toilet lining-up periods. I’m seeking out research on this.

Male Chat in the Queue

Returning to my wait, I attempted to get some friendly chat started about this new situation of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something like: “Well, this makes an irksome difference, right chaps?”

Someone smiled, someone else looked blank, a other man seemed awkward. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was a further symptom of a failing society, woke madness etc. For the most part, quiet ensued. A man came out, fastening his trousers. The line moved forward a position. A couple more men joined the rear of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Interaction

A woman glided out of the next-door facility, all clean and at ease. It was just fine for some. I beamed bashfully at her, trying to communicate an understanding of this upside-down state of affairs. She remarked: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you blighter. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and then I might give you the time.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She said anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I really could not censure her.