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Shortly before the festive season, I experienced an extraordinary incident. I feel it did me good. This happened at a meeting of several mates, who happen to be dentists, but it's not pertinent. The present party were all blokes, which turns out to be key.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The location was a bar and eatery enjoying a excellent custom. A forgotten afternoon was had by all. Good food, good libations and surprisingly amusing anecdotes about dentistry. As expected, the moment dawned for trips to the men's room. Those who went, I vaguely observed, appeared to be away a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on why this was, but when it came to my turn, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Sample of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any woman here. I am obviously cognizant that, for women, being forced to wait to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I observed women waiting in a line while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a hint of embarrassment about lingering there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly bracing to get a taste of it myself, observing the women glide through the entrance while I was obliged to line up dutifully with others with my mates, angling away at anything we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Genre of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a whole form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal familiarity. Women, I surmise, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging polite remarks and an interesting observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some female friends of my circle. The prevailing view is that intra-queue dialogue is limited to the odd weary glance and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate informed me it’s only at the sinks later that conversation tends to break out.

If I was a female, I’d waste no time on either small talk or reticence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to stand in a common queue simply for the chance to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the utter inequity of it. A handy benchmark for any modern community would be balanced access in urination waiting times. I’m researching studies on this.

Comradely Banter in the Line

During my time in my line, I endeavoured to get some friendly chat flowing about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something to the effect of: “Well, this is an disagreeable change, doesn’t it boys?”

Someone chuckled, a second seemed nonplussed, a other man appeared embarrassed. Another shook his head as if this was yet another symptom of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, silence reigned. A man exited, fastening his trousers. The group shuffled up a place. Two more men took a place at the back of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Exchange

A female wafted out of the adjacent facility, all clean and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, trying to communicate recognition of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She said: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you blighter. Return when you’ve done this a hundred more times and at that point I might give you the time.”

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