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Shortly before the holidays, I had an extraordinary situation. I think it proved instructive. This took place at a gathering of several mates, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but it's not pertinent. The present party were exclusively male, which turns out to be relevant.

A Novel Predicament

The establishment was a tavern enjoying a excellent custom. A wasted afternoon was shared by the group. Fine cuisine, nice drink and remarkably humorous stories about teeth. Naturally, the moment came for visits to the male facilities. Those who went, I half-noticed, looked to be absent a long time. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it came to me next, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a long queue for the men's restroom. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line knew.

An Experience of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect empathy from any woman here. I am acutely cognizant that, for women, needing to line up to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I observed women waiting in a row while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Apart from the inconvenience of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of humiliation about waiting there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was profoundly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, observing the other sex walk straight through the door while I was obliged to wait patiently in line with my companions, angling away at whatever we had in our jackets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Genre of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a complete conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little knowledge. Females, I surmise, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, engaging in polite remarks and an notable observation or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some female friends of my circle. The consensus is that within-the-line interaction is restricted to the occasional eye roll and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague mentioned it’s only at the sinks later that conversation tends to begin.

Had I been a female, I’d refrain from on either niceties or reticence. If I was forced, over and over, to queue in a shared procession simply for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the sheer injustice of it. A valuable metric for any advanced community would be gender parity in toilet waiting times. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Line

During my time in my wait, I tried to spark some brotherly banter flowing about this unprecedented situation of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something along the lines of: “Ah, this is an disagreeable difference, doesn’t it lads?”

A fellow grinned, a second appeared confused, a third individual seemed awkward. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further symptom of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, silence prevailed. A man came out, fastening his trousers. The group shuffled up a position. Another two men joined the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Exchange

A lady glided out of the adjacent facility, all clean and at ease. It was all right for some. I smiled apologetically at her, trying to express acknowledgement of this reversed state of affairs. She said: “Don’t look to me for support, you bastard. Come back when you’ve endured this another hundred times and only then I may give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She said a word. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I truly could not fault her.